My Enemy
by Ryan Arnold
This is the story of my enemy.
I don’t know if a man still needs a nemesis in this day and age but It seems like people have an easier time defining themselves by what they’re against than by what they're for. That’s why Batman needs the Joker, why Darkwing Duck needs Negaduck and why for all of their hemming and hawing, the Westboro Baptist Church needs the queers.
Six years ago, I rented a house in a beautiful village in the middle of a dead end street. Shortly after moving in, some of the neighbors came to welcome me. They seemed nice enough but I think the last place you want friends is right outside your doorstep. I’d rather stay relatively anonymous and not feel obligated to make small talk when I’m checking my mail.
One day I was glancing out my bedroom window & noticed the neighbor on the north side. He hadn’t introduced himself when I moved in, which I liked. But there was something off about the cut of his jib. He was in his fifties, bald, bespectacled, slack jawed. He kind of looked like Milhouse’s Dad from The Simpsons. On weekdays he wore a suit and tie with a matching fedora, I thought he was in a ska band. Every other weekend there were two kids at the house so I think he was divorced. Probably his wife resented that he spent all his time with his ska band. He had a tiny white dog that was constantly yipping, which drove me crazy in the summertime when the windows were open.
Over months and years, we lived parallel lives, making food and going to the bathroom. Day after day with his suits and fedoras, his improbable dumb face, something happened and I began to resent him. I don’t know why. I worried he could see into my bedroom. A friend of mine once said “neighbors are just strangers who see you naked sometimes.” At some point resentment and annoyance turned to acrimony and paranoia.
One day, I was walking around the block listening to The Pogues; my enemy was coming down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I experienced a primal terror far beyond normal run of the mill social anxiety. He approached me and pretended to be on his phone, but I knew we were sizing each other up. I knew that we were destined to battle each other until one of us was dead.
He looked up and gave me a weak little polite wave and a short, pained smile. I bared my teeth obligingly. My fur stood on end. I'm sure he was just waiting for me to let my guard down so he could leap into action and tear out my giblets. He may have looked old and fat but it was clearly all just part of his plan, so diabolical.
I fingered the knife in my coat pocket. I didn’t want to make the first move, my number one priority was avoiding violence, which I hate. But as I looked at his twisted turtle-like grimace, a maniac in his weekend red sox hat and khaki shorts combo, I knew that I was dealing not with a man but a harbinger of evil. I’d bet my right eye he listens to Bela Fleck and quite possibly the Flecktones.
That night I stood guard vigilantly by the window, sure that a siege was imminent. After a while I couldn’t take it anymore, the tension of waiting to be attacked. That is no way to live. That is when I decided that the only move was to take him out first. Murder? It’s the only way, otherwise I’ll never feel safe, always be looking over my shoulder. I decided to take the garden hose and fill his house up with water, drowning my enemy and his terrible dog & all the evidence would be washed away. It was perhaps the perfect crime. I set my fiendish plan into motion by the light of an icy half moon. I ran the hose from the side of his house into an upstairs window and turned on the water. I crept back home and slipped into bed, falling fast asleep, dreaming of revenge and bloated corpses.
In the morning, he was alive
& very angry.
Now we’re worse enemies than ever.
Ryan Arnold is a writer/comedian from the village of Housatonic in Western, Massachusetts. He is the singer/composer for the band, HardCar and the writer/director of the short film, “Stove Bird.”
Chairs
by Ada Wilde
When I was growing up, my father built chairs. He worked all hours of the day—early, late, any time, really. I didn’t see my father much because he was always so busy crafting new designs and carving intricate details into high backs, low backs, and all the backs in between. He made seat-back chairs, too. Ones that looked like squishy grandma faces or dough pushed through the seams of a frozen biscuit tube. These made me laugh. They made my little brother, Jimmy, laugh too. My father also made seats. He worked long hours on those, carving the perfect cradle for all kinds of butts—big butts, small butts, medium and oblong butts. Our father often used his own butt as a mold, sitting, standing, and shifting in the seat bottoms until the depressions felt just right.
Though we weren’t allowed in my father’s chair-building workshop, I always found a way to spy on his latest designs. My favorite projects were the ones where he worked with leather. I called them leather days. On these days, I would slip across the side yard of our towering apartment building, creeping past the neglected azalea bushes and tip-toeing around the drooping dogwood tree on the corner. When I got to my father’s work shed out back, I would peer over the jagged, wooden frame of the side window, trying to avoid splinters in my pinkies. Watching my father work was how I got a really good look at him. He was strong when he was stretching leather, like the strongest chair builder that ever lived. The rhythmic motion of his arms and the tiny pulses of his muscles worked in tandem as he wrestled flaps of leather, tugging them until they hugged the foam squares. The punch of his nail gun resounded through the shed and inside my head like the sharp snap of a rubber band to skin.
Sometimes, when the window was cracked, I could smell the smoky scent of leather wafting out, a hint of burnt cherries on a good leather day. I liked the cherries because they reminded me of visiting Grandpa in the mountains. He was stoic like my father, smoking his pipe while I stood downwind to catch a sniff. I remember the quality of the air, tangled in smoke, the dew’s misty droplets still fresh on the ground, undisturbed in the hours before the sun woke. I looked like I was hopping from stone to stone to avoid the wet grass, kicking my feet through loose gravel in search of sleeping bugs. Though really, I was trying to get a whiff of Grandpa’s tobacco—Captain Black. Cherry blend. That’s what the container said, anyway. I remember because the label had a picture of a ship that Jimmy liked.
Chair building sounds grand, but the problem with my father’s profession was that he wasn’t around all that much. And because our mother had died two years earlier from a cancer in her left boob, Jimmy and I were pretty much on our own, although I guess we were kind of on our own before that, too. But after our mother died, it got worse, and we sometimes thought of our father as not so much a father as a ghost—a ghost chair builder. Everyone assumed our home was full of chairs. But, ironically, it was completely devoid of them. During these days, the no chair days, as I liked to call them, Jimmy didn't laugh that much.
Then, one afternoon in early winter, something strange happened. I was on my way home from school when Jimmy came running at me fast, his face all twisted in something awful, his eyes strained with embarrassment and fright. I’ll never forget it because a string of snot in the shape of Florida was slipping down the edge of his left cheek. I thought he was upset because it was the first day of winter break, the second death anniversary of our mother. Jimmy cried on this day every year for an hour or two before passing out from exhaustion, his head pressed into the crook of my arm or resting heavily on my thigh. But today was different. Jimmy was different.
Despite November and the chill in the air, his hands were sticky and hot as he pulled me quickly through the last three blocks to our home. When we passed Maria’s Bakery, I smelled biscuits, and at the Corner Store, I smelled sweet, curling fingers of smoke. Jimmy, Jimmy, what’s wrong? I asked over and over, but Jimmy wouldn’t answer. He just ran faster, dragging me behind him like an old blankie.
And then I saw it. Beyond the edge of our street and past the tangled, contorted faces of onlookers was my childhood home. The home where Jimmy and I lived. The home where my father lived and worked. The home where mother lived before her boob killed her. But at that moment, as the late afternoon sun tilted wearily from day into dusk, I couldn’t see a home at all; the only thing I could see was my father’s chairs. Every last one pinched between our house and the rest of the world.
Jimmy and I stared in horror, and I felt small and strange, like a bug stuck in the crack of a sidewalk. I tried to count the chairs but gave up. There were high backs and low backs and all the backs in between. There were seat-backs that looked like squishy grandma faces or dough spilling through the cracks backs, only this time we didn’t laugh. There were chairs with leather seat bottoms, some finished and some not, and I swear I could smell burnt cherries. But what Jimmy and I didn’t see that day was our father, the great chair builder—the builder of all those chairs. And after that day, the day of the chairs, I like to call it, we never saw him again.
Ada Wilde is an aspiring writer and MFA candidate at Pacific University. When she is not reading or writing, Ada is outdoors, wandering through the mountains that surround her home in beautiful Durango, Colorado.
Another Way
by Nathan Bachman
When you reach the top of the bluff, inch forward and put the chair down. Take a seat. Relax. The moon is coming. Take some time to appreciate the horizon and the rolling waves below. Watch the white birds with the black ring round their necks as they glide across the deadly drop and punctuate the air. You’ll be able to see them for only a little longer before the darkness pulls itself across the vista and your human eyes fail.
Now, listen. It will be a soft night. The lolling whispers of the sea are cold and lonely. But that’s why you’re following my directions. You’ve grown lonely with your life, your work, your family. David was a great husband, and Amelia was an easy child. There was a time, you told me, when they needed you and this was everything. That changed. Just snuck up on you despite all your precautions. From a young age, you did everything right by listening to your teachers, your mother, the pastor—and success arrived without struggle. It was depleting. So, you eyed the tops of buildings, overpasses, and bridges. Every precipice held the thrill of leaping—no warning, no note. Just a small thought, a fleeting mercy.
You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Could you?
I had the same profane fantasies. I could barely exist, except near the windows of my home, which stood over the others. My husband was rich and kind, my children bright and clean. Maids, cooks. Dinner parties with famed, illustrious guests. An exhausting arrangement I longed to escape.
Like you, I turned to friends and family. Find a project, they said. A charity. Yes, distractions—they worked better when I was younger. I conquered my listlessness, worked with something like passion. Helped others, until I could not help myself. The vast space I wanted to fill remained. The city’s best physicians diagnosed me. I was overly excited and needed rest. A tired lie. There must be another way, I wished.
I took a respite to the country. To my sister in the salt meadows. She was worried for me but was in the midst of redecorating. We entertained in the drawing room and discussed colors. It was her conscious commitment to the wallpaper that did me in. How different I was! From everyone.
It brought me to the cliffs.
As the sky darkens, be careful. Mind the stars, they appear suddenly. Put your mask on. Secure the strings behind your ears and breathe. What will your mask look like? Mine was a smile.
Hidden under your disguise, there won’t be much to see, but focus through the small holes and gaze on the moon. Remember to sit still. The night lingers over the cliff’s edge. Be patient. You have come this far; you have done all that is necessary. He will come, as he came for me a century ago.
After you’ve sat long enough, the wind will speak your name, and The Maker will arrive. He coils up from the water and snakes over the moon, wingless and ghoulish. Try not to scream. If you lose your nerve—you’ll have but a moment to decide.
His kiss is eternal. Everlasting. I know you’ve thought it over and concluded, as I had, this was the only way. It might be, I cannot tell you—I’ve already chosen. My blood runs cold and bent. You’ve seen me feast, and you weren’t entirely afraid. We talked. For you, I wonder if it was the blood, my terrible strength, or the simple fact what you saw was proof—there is more. For me, it was the latter.
The change is permanent. The costs and the virtues, equally immeasurable. So, if you want to change your mind as he slithers toward you, here’s how: bolt up, take off the mask. Startle the demon. Step forward and throw yourself over, chair and all. The Maker’s quick. Unnaturally, so. But gravity will prevail.
Nathan is a public school teacher in central Ohio where he lives with his wife, two cats, and Shih Tzu. His fiction has appeared in many publications, but most recently in Terrain.org, Hobart, and The Flagler Review. He is also forthcoming in Sunspot Lit.
Festival Hook-Up
by Janine Muster
The bands had stopped playing. Most people had gone to sleep. It was no longer dark, but the sun had not yet risen. She had cigarettes, and I had wine. Amid this neither-asleep-nor-fully-awake world we smoked and drank and laughed. Then we crawled into her tent. She was softer than I thought. Her long, brown hair—small feathers and wooden beads were braided into it—brushed my cheeks. She smelled like cedar. Her long tongue found mine to tease it playfully. Her mouth left an aroma of smokiness on my lips. Her kisses had a bittersweet finish.
“We’ll see each other later?” I wanted to spend every dawn with her. At least for the rest of the festival.
“Better not.” She took a strand of my hair and twirled it around her index finger.
“Ok, weirdo. What is it?” Her signals were confusing.
“Let’s just keep it casual, ok?”
***
Colourful costumes dance past me in a blur. I hardly notice the feral hoodies, the flowing dresses, the intricate face paints of the other festival goers. I’m distracted. Finally, I spot her in the crowd. She’s talking to a guy I don’t recognize. Like she said she would, she ignores me. ‘No reason to be concerned,’ I think to myself. ‘That’s just how she is.’
As soon as we’re the only ones around the fire pit and the last sips of whiskey have evaporated, I know it’s safe to take her hand. Our fingers interlock. We walk across the festival ground toward the river. Our clothes come off. We laugh as we play in the water. Waves splash over our bodies. Refreshed and wide awake, we skip through the morning fog. Dawn is our time.
“Come with me!” The corners of her mouth almost touch her tree-stump-brown eyes, that’s how big she smiles. Her teeth glow white in the not-quite-yet-morning light.
Still naked, we scramble into her tent. The first rays of sun shine through the fabric and make her body shimmer green.
“You want to grab a coffee when we’re back in town?” A smell of cedar lingers in the air.
“I can’t.” She starts chewing on her nails.
“Why not?” I grab her hand to make her stop.
“I have a boyfriend.”
That hits me.
Her hand releases from my grip. She moves it so lightly over my thighs, my vagina, my breasts, it tickles. She runs her fingers through my hair and pulls it back. That pressure on my skull sends waves of excitement to my stomach. I’m with her, and it’s like having a piece of dark chilli chocolate melt in my mouth. It starts so innocently and sweet. Then it becomes spicier and spicier and spicier. Until… Damn it!
“Where’s he?”
“He’s volunteering. Probably making breakfast for the musicians right now.”
I want to scream. I want to run away from her. But her touch makes me shiver. Her smell intoxicates. Her taste addicts. So, I stay for as long as I can, knowing that when I leave this tent, we’ll be strangers again.
Janine, who is originally from Germany, moved to Edmonton (Canada) where she completed her Master of Arts degree in Sociology. She still calls the Canadian Prairies her home. Janine works here as a grant writer for a hospital foundation, and she is the dedicated servant to a cat named Sylvia, which includes managing her Instagram account @sylvia.the.moustache.cat. In her free time, Janine writes flash fiction and short stories. Her creative work has been published in the Polyglot Magazine of Poetry and Art, the Microfiction Monday Magazine, and at Flash Fiction Friday. You can visit Janine @nina_muster for pictures of lost objects, hidden treasures, and the occasional collage.
Mary Catherine
by Allie King
I still don’t know if Mary Catherine hated me or loved me. At the start I was her groupie. I carried extras of her favorite guitar pics, I played harmony to her melody, learned all her songs. Mary Catherine agreed to marry me either to subvert the dominant paradigm, or because I was good in bed – at least better than her old boyfriend. She liked the attention, she liked the unconditional positive regard, also my persistent worship, my boundless admiration for her talent. She married me in a meadow – the wedding performed by a defrocked Methodist Minister, joined by a handful of supportive but skeptical friends. One friend played the flute. My mother baked a cake. We went to a fancy Inn for our honeymoon night. After I went down on her, while Mary Catherine fell asleep in my arms in the four-poster canopied bed she said, “You know this is just for show, just to stick it to the man – right?”
“Right,” I said, because she was always right. She was so beautiful with long brown hair, deep brown eyes and a backside that invited perusing.
We performed in coffee houses around Boston, she in the spotlight me hogging the shadows.
When I moved away to New York she said, “Why do you hate men?”
“The only man I hate is my father and he earned that,” I said.
“I can’t talk to you when you deny the truth,” she said and stopped answering my phone calls and letters.
Mary Catherine called me to tell me she was getting married for real to a man she’d met in her Accepting God’s Will program. She was in three classes in the program, she explained, and he was in two of them, plus they’d formed a band.
“Are you going to admit it now, that you hate men?” She said that was why she didn’t invite me to the wedding.
Not because you already married me? I wondered. But I didn’t say it.
“I don’t hate men,” I said, but repeating it didn’t make her believe me.
I flew to LA where she was recording a demo – without her husband. Her voice, pure and clear sang through me. I joined in on the harmony – all the parts were engraved on my soul – I never missed a beat. Mary Catherine’s smile lit up my heart.
“You came in just right,” she said. The highest compliment she’d ever paid me.
She hustled me out before her husband came home. I tripped on the path leading away from her house, but I didn’t fall. She sent me a copy of the demo. I never played it.
Allie is at work on a collection of short stories about queer and lesbian lives during different decades and is finishing a second novel exploring the what-ifs of relationships. Allie can be reached at AllieKing@protonmail.com.
Night Beaver
by Casey DW Jones
Mona hadn’t ever seen a beaver in real life before, but she’s certain that’s what she just run over. Jimmy called her a dumb shit as they pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway, that there’s no way in hell that was a beaver.
“Well, I ain’t the goddamn game warden, Jimmy,” Mona says. Her hands trembling from the impact, still gripping the steering wheel of the Dodge Dart tight, even though they’re safely parked. “But I know what I saw. It was a goddamned beaver."
“We haven’t had no water in eight years,” Jimmy says. “The river’s drier than a piece of stale Wonderbread. Where the fuck would a beaver live out here?”
The latest drought was supposed be another of the typical seven-year variety, as all the farmers and drillers and ranch hands would say down at the Presto. But just like everything else on the wind-scarred plains of southwest Kansas, the drought stuck around a lot longer than it should have.
“It was probably just a coon,” Jimmy says, and slaps the cracked vinyl dashboard.
“Like hell, Jimmy. I know what a raccoon looks like. This was a goddamned beaver. I saw that Imax movie about them once, where they used all the underwater cameras. Fifth grade. School field trip to the Cosmosphere. It was narrated by Gary Busey.”
“Is Gary Busey gonna fix the car?” Jimmy says. “I paid twenty bucks to use this thing tonight.”
“What kind of man charges his cousin to borrow their car?”
“What kind of loser doesn’t even have a friend to borrow a car from?” Jimmy says.
“Fuck off, Jimmy,” Mona says. “At least I have a job.”
“Well, you ain’t got no money, still.” Jimmy says.
“It’s your dumb fault we’re even out here,” Mona says. “Can’t your customers pick up their smack from you?”
“Part of what they’re paying me for is the delivery service,” Jimmy says. “And this is Cooper we’re talking about. I owe him big time. And now he’s liable to be pissed at me too, for being late.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have driven tonight,” Mona says. “When are you going to get your license like you always say?”
“Oh, here you go again with that. I told you. I got a meeting with the DA on Monday morning.”
“Today’s Monday, Jimmy.”
“I mean next Monday.”
“I can’t even do this right now,” Mona says.
“Me fucking neither,” Jimmy says. He gets out and circles the car. A semi whooshes by; the car rocks and dips side to side before it steadies. Jimmy stands out front, acne scars matching the craters of the rising full moon. His moustache looks sweaty as steam pours out from under the hood across his face into the warm July night.
“Yup, we got a busted fucking headlight,” Jimmy says. He rips off his Joe Camel hat and throws it to the ground.
Mona fumbles through her purse for her pack of Marlboro Lights. She moved up from Sundances after she got her job running the register at the Presto. Doris told her if she stuck around for a year or so, she’d most likely become a manager. Then Mona could help her mom get a new leg, so she could start driving the school bus again.
“Goddamnit, you four-eyed idiot bitch,” Jimmy says. “My cousin’s gonna kill me.”
Mona gets out, sees the busted headlight, some glass shards still attached to the round metal housing. She gets down on a knee and looks under the car. There’s a dark blob, wedged underneath. Must be the beaver. She reaches for it cautiously; in case it might still be alive. It’s still warm, but it’s not breathing. She drags it by the fur out into the white gaze of the lone working headlight.
“See? Look at that tail,” Mona says and points to the paddled appendage, lying flat on the black tarred asphalt. “That’s a fucking beaver, Jimmy.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Jimmy says. “That’s the most cornbread crazy shit I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe it. It’s beautiful.”
Jimmy hadn’t ever called her beautiful, not once in the whole eighteen months they’d been dating. They started seeing each other when Mona was a high school junior. Jimmy was already twenty-seven then.
She snuffs out her cigarette on the hood and flicks the butt at Jimmy’s chest. She snatches her backpack from the car, her application paperwork for nursing school inside, and slings it over her shoulder. The taillights cast a red pall on the shoulder for a stretch, but then the light fades and it gets dark and purple and black. Jimmy runs up behind her and grabs her arm and squeezes. She pitches it off and swings her backpack at him. He cowers. Tells her they’re done if she keeps walking, and where’s she walking off to anyway?
“Miles away from your sorry ass,” Mona says and keeps walking.
“Fine,” Jimmy shouts. “Fucking fine. But if I end up in jail tonight, that’s on you. And I’m giving that dead dumb beaver-ass sonofabitch to Cooper. He’ll love it.”
“I don’t care about the beaver no more, Jimmy. Just for once admit I was right.”
“You were right, okay, baby. Now come back and drive. If I get pulled over, I’m fucked. Please?”
“Fuck you, Jimmy.”
“Okay. Whatever I was going to leave you anyway, just like your daddy did.”
She keeps stepping into the black empty night. Jimmy’s voice fades. Generators sputter out to the west, a distant guttural hum layering in over the crickets. Out on the more-traveled highway, to the east, big rigs streak white and red across the flat. The natural gas plant twinkles on the horizon, like Oz. The wind pushes Mona’s hair across her face. She brushes it back with her fingers. Her chest swells with the sweet feeling of being the one walking away for once.
Casey DW Jones grew up on the High Plains of Southwest Kansas. He holds a BA in Early American Literature from the University of Kansas and an MFA in Fiction from Hamline University, where he served as a fiction editor for Water~Stone Review. Casey’s work has appeared in Peatsmoke Journal, New Limestone Review, Roanoke Review, and elsewhere. A 2022-23 Fiction Fellow for The Loft Literary Center’s Mentor Series, Casey resides in Northeast Minneapolis. To learn more, please visit www.caseydwjones.com.
Emergency Response
by William Cass
The 911 dispatcher’s call for an ambulance came in a little before 4pm. A lone elderly male had fallen while mowing his lawn on the outskirts of town and had possibly broken a bone. Eric and I, the two youngest paramedics, were up next; I drove and Eric rode shotgun with both the lights and siren going.
When we pulled into the old man’s driveway, we found him lying on his back in the middle of the yard. He clutched a cell phone in one hand and grimaced in pain as we hurried to his side.
“Stepped in a damn gopher hole,” the old man growled. “Didn’t even see it.”
I took his vitals while Eric carefully inspected his right leg. It was a hot day – Indian Summer in the Northern Great Plains – and the man wore a sleeveless T-shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts, and rubber slip-on sandals. I watched the man wince at any touch near the lower part of his tibia. He cried out once when Eric ran his fingertips lightly over the disfigured lump there. Eric met my gaze and nodded.
“You’ve broken a bone above your ankle,” Eric told the man.
The old man’s eyes squeezed closed, and he gave a long moan. He dropped his phone to the grass, so I gently slipped it into a pocket of his shorts. The man had a coating of short white hair that reminded me of my grandfather and was about the same age he would have been if he was still alive.
“We’re going to splint you, get you on a stretcher, and take you to the hospital,” Eric said. “They’ll get you all fixed up there.”
He gave me another nod. Eric used one hand to keep the man’s leg stable and the other to remove the receiver from its clip on his hip and call the nearest ER. I brought the needed supplies from the back of the ambulance. We worked together with practiced efficiency and had the man up the ambulance in less than five minutes. I held the back doors open while Eric hopped inside and readied things for transport. As he did, I glanced at the half-mowed yard. An old push-mower with a catcher attached for clippings stood where the man had fallen; the cut rows were precise and evenly overlapped the way my grandfather had taught me.
I heard Eric ask, “You have anyone inside you want to ride with you or follow us to the hospital?”
“No.” The man groaned again. “I live alone.”
“Okay,” Eric said. He turned to me. “Let’s go.”
~
After that transport, we had only one more run, a quick nursing home transfer, before getting off shift at five. On our way to the parking lot, Eric asked if I wanted to grab a beer, but I begged off. I watched his pick-up leave the lot, then texted my wife. I told her I’d be home about a half-hour late, added a two-heart emoji, then drove off myself.
The old man’s house was about ten minutes out of the way. I parked in the driveway where I had earlier and got out of my car. I pulled the shirt tails out of my navy-blue uniform and walked over to the mower in the middle of the lawn. I double-checked the width of the rows’ overlap before I began mowing, moving slowly and carefully to keep my line straight. By the end of the third row, I’d sweat through my shirt. The good smell of the cut grass brought back memories.
When I finished, I emptied the clippings in a garbage can inside the open garage and stored the mower next to it. I paused to admire the pegboard over the man’s workbench which held tools arranged by type and ascending size; my grandfather had done the same thing. A recently washed and waxed Oldsmobile was parked in the garage’s center, the chamois that had been used on it draped over the workbench vice and dried stiff; that brought back more memories.
I considered leaving the old man a note to explain about the mowing, but then thought my grandfather would have told me not to, that it might suggest the need for acknowledgement. So instead, I took a last, lingering look at the neatly cut lawn, nodded, and started for home.
William Cass has had over 300 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. He won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. A nominee for both Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net anthologies, he has also received five Pushcart Prize nominations. His first short story collection, Something Like Hope & Other Stories, was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection, Uncommon & Other Stories, was recently released by the same press. He lives in San Diego, California.
The Ghosts of a Desperate Good Deed
by Patrick Malka
Stepping out of the hospital at 4am, the nauseating smell of antiseptic chemicals swarmed Liam’s head like gnats, invading his mouth, brewing in his saliva, and killing what was left of his hunger. The sub zero February temperatures would weigh down the cloying odor in time.
No one should step out of a hospital at 4 am without at least a story to tell and in Liam’s case, there just wasn't much to tell anymore. Any story worth telling he had just relinquished the rights to by leaving for the last time.
So the sound of wheels spinning in icy cups of their own making, cutting through an otherwise batting stuffed quiet came as a relief.
Liam spotted the Corolla at the end of the block spinning its wheels in reverse for what must have been the twentieth time based on the amount of blackened ice under the tires and the smell of warm rubber transported on the frigid air. The driver was a young man in scrubs, clearly exhausted, frustrated, wanting desperately for this one thing to be resolved. He wanted to be let out of the two feet of wiggle room he was allotted at that moment.
Liam signaled to the driver that he could help. The driver lowered his window, his voice cracking and his eyes watering from the cold air and something else. He probably had a pretty good story to tell.
Liam placed himself behind the car and explained to the driver that as the car reversed, it ever so slightly climbed out of the indent the spinning wheels had created. Not enough to get out but enough to exploit. He told the driver to reverse as much as possible then quickly switch to drive and gun it, at which point he would put his weight down on the car to try to get some traction and push as hard as he could. The driver shouted that he got it and would try.
The first attempt was good, but the driver wasn't quick enough to take advantage of the car's pendulum swing back onto ice. It took a few more tries to get the rhythm down. Once it looked like the driver would get it, Liam went to the front and kicked at whatever snow and ice might get in the way of this next attempt being the one. He returned to his position behind the car. He had worked up a sweat. He had forgotten his gloves in his dad's room and couldn't handle the idea of going back to get them. He could hear his father laughing, “serves you right for giving a shit.” Without thinking, Liam wiped his brow with the palm of his hand and placed it on the cold metal of the car.
The driver shouted to see if he was ready for one more try. He looked down at his right hand, pulling gently to confirm that the skin was thoroughly stuck. It felt so good to be treated like the one who might be able to help. Liam didn't hesitate to tell the driver to go for it.
They executed the move perfectly.
The corolla slid out with a slight fish tail the driver was able to recover.
The driver leaned out of his window and gave a quick, appreciative nod, asked if this kind stranger needed a lift.
Unable to speak and finally on the verge of screaming the scream he had been holding in for months, Liam nodded back and waved him off with his good hand. Whatever the driver’s night had been, it was now for the most part resolved and should remain that way. The driver thanked him again and started down the street, not noticing the blood staining the snow at Liam’s feet.
Watching the car go, Liam’s handprint was still visible, appearing in thick, glistening relief every time the car passed a streetlamp.
Patrick Malka (he/him) is a high school science teacher from Montreal, Quebec, where he lives with his partner and two kids. His flash fiction can be found in Five South's the weekly, Nocturne magazine, The Raven Review, Sky Island Journal, and Coffin Bell Journal. He can be found online on Twitter @PatrickMalka and Instagram @malkapatrick.
The Bad House on Nagle
by Sterling Gates
Everyone in the neighborhood knew the rundown house at the far end of Nagle Street was bad. Including Josie’s five-year-old daughter, Amanda.
“Why are we stopping here, Mommy?” Amanda asked from her car seat. Josie put her Volvo in Park and looked at her child in the rearview mirror, debating which lie would best serve her. She settled on a version of the truth.
“Mommy’s just gonna pick up something from a friend, pumpkin,” Josie said. “A treat.”
“Like a snack?” asked the little girl.
“Yes, exactly. But just for adults,” Josie replied.
“Oh, fuzz nuts,” Amanda swore. Josie laughed. Her husband Eddie had taught their daughter that mock curse after he heard Amanda say a four-letter word to the family dog one day. He’d presented “fuzz nuts” as an alternative, and it had quickly become the family’s curse of choice.
“I need you to wait in the car, baby. I’ll be back in two and then we’ll get you to school.”
Josie pulled four twenties from her purse. Probably enough, she thought, stuffing them into her jeans. Josie smiled reassuringly at her daughter, then stepped out of her car. She locked the Volvo with a VEET-DEET and put the keys in her back pocket, then turned back to the house. The bad house.
Josie hadn’t really seen the house before, usually paying it only a cursory glance as she drove past or muttering at it as she navigated around the cop cars that often lined its curb. Parents in the neighborhood ignored the bad house, hoping one day someone would buy it and tear it down and build something better. Or that something really bad would happen inside and the city would be forced to remove its occupants for good.
The house’s flaking paint and spider-webbed windows loomed at her, the clichés of every haunted house creaking into her mind.
Women shouldn’t go into scary houses alone, she thought. But after Drake’s party… what we had was just so… so delicious. I need this. Need to feel that again. I need it bad.
Josie ran her palms across her jeans, the sweat leaving a faint line on the denim. She opened the broken gate and followed the bad house’s walkway, cement cracked and uneven. Her keychain dangled from her back pocket, jingling with every step as she went up the porch stairs and approached the door.
She wasn’t sure what to do. Knock? Say a secret code word?
As Josie neared the front door, it opened. A man came out. Josie avoided eye contact with him, trying to just brush past him and get inside. He put his arm out, barring her from entering.
“Hey,” he said. “C’n I get a ride?”
She looked up. All she could see were his black teeth, stained with years of addiction. “N-no,” she whispered.
“Then fuck you,” he said, his rot breath hot against her cheek. Black Tooth bumped her to one side and walked down the bad house’s steps, quietly calling her a four-letter word that Josie hoped her daughter would never say.
Another man appeared in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
Josie eyed his friendly smile. A shark seeing a new meal, she thought. She steadied her nerves and straightened up. “Drake sent me.”
The shark smiled bigger. “I know‘im. Whatcha looking for?”
“Crystal.” Josie tried to say it like someone who’d bought meth before.
“We got that.”
Josie smiled, the past two days of want suddenly draining from her body.
“We got whatever you and your boyfriend need.”
Josie frowned. “My boyfriend?”
KA-DEET.
Josie heard the car unlock and instinctively reached for her keys.
But they weren’t in her back pocket anymore, the keychain was no longer hanging from her jeans, her keys were in Black Tooth’s hand. And Black Tooth was crawling into her driver’s side door. Josie was down the steps and halfway down the walk when the car started, her hand inches from the back door when the Volvo started to roll. Josie ran after the car, her car, as it picked up speed. She saw Amanda’s face in the window, eyes wide, heard her daughter cry out “MOMMYYY!” as the car disappeared around the corner.
Josie fell to her knees in the middle of Nagle Street and screamed.
The bad house loomed.
Sterling Gates is an award-winning filmmaker, a New York Times best-selling comic book creator, and a newly-minted fiction writer. He's also a proud Eagle Scout. His previous short story, “The Night I Caught A Bullet,” was published in Abrams Books’s YA superhero anthology, Generation Wonder: The New Age of Heroes (2022). Gates lives in Los Angeles, CA. To find out more about his work, visit www.sterlinggates.com.
Nebraska Peasant
by Chris Schacht
The first night, he thought it was just a good lay.
He’d met the businessman on Grindr, represented by a fit, 40-some-year-old torso. They chatted a little, and though Clayton was 20 years younger, he thought, fuck it. I’ll give it a go. Not only had the sex been fun, there was room service, wine, and some giggly joking before falling asleep. A good night.
He woke just as the businessman was leaving for an emergency board meeting. The businessman told him to take off whenever he wanted, and that he’d be in touch about getting together later. Clayton gave his best flirty smile as the man left, then laid back on the bed. California King. He’d heard about them, but never been in one. He fanned out his arms and legs, making snow angels in the bright sheets.
That lasted all of ten minutes before he remembered his Saturday shift at the bar. Seven to close. He relied on weekend tips to get him through the week. Maybe a bartender could save up enough to blow off a random weekend, but not a lowly server, not after a year of pandemic back rent and three years of degree-less college debt and car payments and parents so shameless that they sometimes asked him, their shameful gay son, for money.
On the other hand, when would he get to stay in this bed again?
Clayton ran the numbers, fudged them, threw out the red marker, then texted a coworker about a shift trade. No Saturday night shlepping beers and tots for him, no matter how desperately he needed the money. He had a date with a daddy.
#
The second night, he thought he was blessed.
Clayton did not eat lunch, partly for sex reasons, partly for vanity, and partly because the businessman promised luxury room service for dinner. They ate surf and turf, the businessman feeding him slices of oranges, the asparagus untouched. Then sex in the chair, interrupted by a call from the front desk. Moans are okay, the businessman said after the call. No more screaming. I’ve got an account with this chain. I can’t afford to be on their shit list. After sex, sleep, because the businessman was tired. He’d had a long day, even though it was Saturday. That was okay with Clayton, though he could have gone again. He laid there, quietly rubbing that soft sheet against his chest as the businessman slept. He was #blessed. Eh, just blessed. For real.
The businessman had a Sunday business brunch, with business people, talking business. He told Clayton to linger in bed again if he liked. So Clayton tried. He tried and tried but boundless energy propelled him out of bed. He felt like he slept twenty hours while on a caffeine drip. He did pushups and sit-ups, then waggled his dick in front of the full-length mirror. The shower was so big it didn’t have a curtain or a door. He took a few pictures of himself in the bathroom mirror before toweling off, then a few after, with the towel dangling from his hip.
It was only 8 am. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive at 8 am.
#
The third night, he thought he was in love.
That night, the businessman wanted to take him out to eat. Clayton suggested an Omaha steakhouse, but the businessman was tired of fancy restaurants. So Clayton took him to a dive Indian restaurant on Leavenworth, a place Clayton went once a month, yet he felt giddy throughout the entire meal. The naan was too oily and the conversation pleasant but he was floating. They were out. Lots of people came to this spot. The businessman could be seen. With Clayton. And he didn’t care. And eating Indian at all, that signaled he didn’t have to top tonight. Sure enough, they went back to the hotel, to that big bed, and laid down together. The businessman gave Clayton a handjob, circling a finger around Clayton’s nipple, and when it was over wanted nothing in return other than for Clayton to stay the night again. The generosity reminded Clayton of Holli-boy, his college boyfriend, and the only person who came to mind at the mention of true love. Until now. Maybe he would think of this now.
#
The fourth night, he thought he might scream.
Clayton woke to the businessman packing his things, and Clayton ran to the bathroom to control his breathing and make sure not to cry. He came back out smiling. The businessman didn’t know when he’d be back in Omaha, but he’d give Clayton a call if it happened. Clayton nodded and managed to say it had been fun.
Monday night at the bar, industry night. People asked him where he was all weekend. “Getting wasted,” he said, picking up their empty glasses without making eye contact. A few cold shoulders and they let him be.
Home by 1 am. His first night back in a full bed after three in a California King. And what a piece of shit. He’d bought it used from a couple that upgraded to a queen. He bought the thing for $100 bucks, which he could barely afford. He laid down and immediately slid to the center, where the springs had given way. As he laid there, the long muscles on the sides of his hips began to tighten, and a dull throb in his heel tingled with pain. That crick in his neck, the one he had completely forgotten over the last three days, it returned, bringing a sharp pain like a wire stabbing his ribs. And that’s when he knew he’d been infatuated with the wrong thing. After all, the businessman didn’t share anything about his life, didn’t make promises, didn’t hold Clayton through the night. He let Clayton sleep. And Clayton did sleep. He slept very well.
Now back at home, in his own second-hand bed, Clayton couldn’t sleep. But he could scream. He could always afford to do that.
After many years as a tour guide, landscaper, and failed law student, Chris now lives in Colorado, where he does none of those things. His work has appeared in Analog, The Hopper, West Trade Review, The Bellevue Literary Review, and others.
Une femme complice
by Landa wo
“We resemble the wounds of our past.”
Barambo[1]
Karima had had a difficult night. The little fellow was cutting his teeth and Calambinga was working nights. Calambinga brought some warm croissants and suggested minding the child at home. He was sleeping so peacefully that he didn’t dare wake him up. Calambinga prepared the breakfast while Karima got ready. Karima was relieved to have her child’s father in her life. He did not match the stereotypes associated with the black men of Europe who are seen as irresponsible. He looked after his son.
She dashed to the shop. The image was circulating in a loop on the social networks. It was an image of a black child with a green hooded top with the inscription: “the coolest monkey in the jungle.” The white child also wore the same hooded top with the inscription of an “expert in survival”. Karima smiled at the customers. She was doing her work but her head was full of questions clashing together. The chain of bullshit seemed long, no one had noticed anything: the photographer, artistic director, stylist, marketing, sales, and of course the parents. Karima said a prayer for the child’s mother. She thought of resigning on principle. She called Calambinga who assured her of his support. She would find another job and he would work extra hours. He would support her. She thought again of the difficulty for Blacks in France and Europe for finding a job other than as a security guard or footballer. She trembled. One controversy driving out another. In a few weeks no one will be talking about it. She decided to keep her job so as not to have financial difficulties at month ends. She felt dirty and complicit. Her mother used to say that in a storm men break and women bend. Tomorrow is another day. At the end of her work, still deep in her thoughts, she went back up Gaston de Caillavet street then took a right onto Quai de Grenelle. A car struck her at the corner of rue du Théâtre. She died instantly. The last image that whizzed across her mind was that of the black child in his hoodie. Curtain. Rideau.
[1] Prince of minerals, first of the dead buried in the city of the wind (Angola/Cabinda)
Landa wo is a writer from Angola, Cabinda and France. A prior Metro Eireann award winner, his work has appeared in Columbia Journal, Colorado Review, The Common, Cyphers, Fiction International, Grain Magazine, Michigan Quarterly Review, Tule Review, Nashville Review, Raleigh Review, and other journals and anthologies. Politically engaged and his works deal with prominent issues of social justice, discrimination, and cultural strife. He can be found on Twitter @wo_landa.
Strega
by Pamela McCarthy
I didn’t know about the ways until my fourteenth birthday last summer, the day Nonna asked me why I was crying. Her face set sharp as a knife’s edge as I told her about Alex and his friends. After a silence swollen like a storm cloud she said, “I’m going to teach you how to do some things, my girl.”
I had told Papa before that. “I knew you resented him but I had no idea it was this much,” he said. Then he talked about getting me help because obviously, I needed it if I was going to tell such lies.
Papa and Julie don’t like Nonna. Papa calls her an old witch and Julie says she’s touched in the head. Papa married Julie when I was six. It had been ten months since my mother died. “You get a new mom and you get a brother,” Papa had said, as if it was a great treat.
I like Nonna. When Alex and his friends came home bored and had ideas about how they’d make sport of me, I could run to her house. It smells of herbs, baked bread, and spiced vinegar.
I made charms to protect myself, which was all fine and good, but then Alex and his friends got arrested for something they did to a girl we went to school with. Nothing came of it—the prosecutor decided there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him. Meanwhile, the girl’s locker had the word SLUT scrawled on it, people messaged her and posted about her online, her voice inbox was full of jeers, and sometimes people threw trash in her front yard.
I asked Nonna about what she told me. “You said the liquor, the hair, and the prized object would do the trick,” I said. “Is there any way to reverse it?”
Nonna considered for a minute, cracking each bony knuckle. “Yes,” she said, “there is. You can take those same things and reverse the chant, and it will all go back to before.”
“The same things? Can it be different liquor or does it have to be the same liquor in the same bottle?”
Nonna confirmed: The same liquor in the same bottle, the same hair, the same prized object.
At home, I brought the jar and the bottle of Strega into the bathroom. I left his hair and XBox console on top of my bureau. Alex was running around on his tiny legs, antennae wiggling, his shiny black back spinning around and around at the bottom of the jar.
I made sure he was watching when I poured every drop down the drain, and smashed the bottle on the floor.
Pamela McCarthy's work has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Lighthouse Weekly, and Drunk Monkeys. When she isn't writing, you will find her reading, buying seeds for her garden, or creating more garden space because she bought so many seeds. You can reach her at pmccarthy2007@gmail.com.
Carnation Heads
by Amanda Chiado
Jared carries his wand into the funeral. It is of the high realm with embedded powers of Aylon. The gold band on the handle tells a hieroglyph story of how Tricove brought his father back from the dead, but when his father returned he had two heads.
Jared thinks about how his father will look with two heads. Then, the Double-Mint song grows all minty in his ears and dances around in his head. Will both heads be identical? Not likely. Just like Tricove’s father, one will be evil and one will be good. Jared likes that because his father was a man’s man, an old chap, a chip off the ol’ block, which meant, Get the belt. What the fuck are you looking at? Boy, what are you, some sissy?
Maybe the second head could say I love you.
Jared hides the wand in his long black coat. It was his father's and still smells like dust and Marlboros. There is a scratched lottery ticket in the breast pocket. The old room of the mortuary has cheap carpet, uneasy to walk on and a bit of Pine-Sol sharpens the air. All the old ladies look at Jared with poor thing eyes. Their embroidered hankies sop up the tears on their wrinkled faces. Wow! they will say, when Jared’s two headed father sits up in his deathbed and is full of a proclamation.
Jared walks up to the front pew where his mother stands statuesque. “You’re swimming in that coat,” she says, then pats him on his head like a mangy puppy. Jared tries to hold her hand, but he’s so nervous that the sweat on his hands slides their hands apart. Jared touches the wand in his pocket like a secret.
The preacher tries to console the onlookers. Jared counts the carnations on the giant heart placed next to his father. It's over three dozen soft pink heads. He recognizes all the photos of Jesus are 8 X 10s and that the preacher has a scratchy voice and scuffed cowboy boots.
When everyone hangs their heads to pray, Jared looks backward to see them bow, sunflowers after dark. He can feel some of their prayers arrive for him, sliding up his coat sleeves. His mother looks like an old wet potato. Jared wants his two headed father to kiss his mother twice as much in his next iteration of existence. It is Jared’s turn to look into the great, glossy black box. Thomas Barrington is engraved on the side.
Upon seeing the face of his father, Jared holds his breath. That is a part of the ritual, so Jared won’t accidentally breathe his father in. He pulls out the wand swiftly and holds it high. The preacher’s wife screams, “He’s got a stick.” The blind pianist cuts the gospel short. Jared bangs on the casket with his wand. Thwack.
Among us you grew,
arrive again, now as two.
Thwack. “It’s a golf club!” Aunt Barbara yells.
Jared’s mother tries to pull the wand from his hand, but Jared yanks it away and she loses her balance and falls against the carnation heart, scattering the pink heads. Thwack. The largest cousin Leroy, a bodyguard, tries to take Jared down by grabbing him by the waist which shoves Jared into the casket, knocking it into the piano with a clang. The body rolls out. Jared clambers to his father, wand now in the pews. He cries and punches his father’s one dead head.
Amanda Chiado’s work is part of the Visible Poetry Project 2019 and she is the author of the chapbook Vitiligod: The Ascension of Michael Jackson (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her poetry and short fiction have most recently appeared in The Pinch, Barren Magazine, and Entropy. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. Amanda is the Director of Arts Education at the San Benito County Arts Council, a California Poet in the Schools, and a reader for Jersey Devil Press. Amanda loves horror movies, cooking, and dancing. Get weirder at www.amandachiado.com and connect via email at amandachiado@gmail.com.
Eight Reasons to Have Sex
by Heidi Fisher
1. You are 15, but you feel like you are grown. He’s 17, and though he’s a virgin as well, you are sure he’s done this a hundred times. You want him to like you so much.
2. It’s the day of your high school graduation, and your dress is white and flowy. As your mom’s nimble fingers dance over your hair, twisting baby’s breath into tangles of blonde curls, you avoid her glistening eyes in the mirror. Now, as he fingers a free tress, you appreciate her handy work. His hands gently circling your waist, you whisper, “Shhh,” and place a finger on his lips. Your parents are in the next room.
3. Your nose is numb, your throat is bitter, your heart is racing. You feel nothing and everything all at once. He’s just across the kitchen island from you, cutting another line on the marble countertop. His suit is crisp and this is his Rittenhouse row home. You think he wants you.
4. You’ve ordered another drink and the sharp lines of the world blurr and your thoughts muddle and you stumble, but just a bit. He’s paying. You don’t want to, not really, but you just can’t think of a reason to say no and there’s his hand already creeping up your thigh and you remind yourself: It’s not a big deal.
5. “It’s exciting. You’re exciting,” you whisper. Your eyes are on her. Her eyes are on him. You wish things were different.
6. His face is buried in your neck, mummering: “I love you.” You believe him, breathing in his familiarity, wanting him, unable to wait a moment longer.
7. He’s behind you, and the sound of his moans makes your jaw clench. He came home late, again, and you tended the toddler all day, again. Swallowing memories, silencing frustration, you lean back into him, making the sounds he wants to hear, urging him to finish so you can continue being mad. You are ovulating.
8. “But do you want to?” You know he is asking for himself, not for you. You promise him you do, though your heavy eyelids betray you. In a single day there have been a lifetime of touches, and you yearn for space and quiet and sleep. But you roll over and offer your body because the angry silence the next day isn’t worth it.
Heidi Ruth Fisher is an educator at Thomas Jefferson School, a small boarding school located in St. Louis, Missouri, where she teaches math and science. She holds a BA in art history from Saint Louis University, as well as a Masters of Bioethics from the University of Pennsylvania and an MA in Health Care Ethics from Saint Louis University. Her work has been featured in various publications, including Harpur Palate, Sonder Midwest, Esoterica Magazine, and other outlets. Her writing reflects her interest in exploring the lived experiences of women and their relationships, while also incorporating elements from the realms of science and the natural world. She can be reached at Heidi.pieroni@gmail.com.
High Priced Art
by Melinda A. Smith
Word on the street travels fast. Only, they aren't words anymore. Or streets. OK, fine. Acronyms sent via neural texting travel fast. And they're annoying.
My head pings loudly — a message coming through. Maybe Beth, telling me I'm a loser. Or Mom. Telling me I'm a loser. Maybe my next painting will be called I'm a Goddamned Loser and when no one buys it I'll say it was performance art. I laugh at my own bad joke and my head throbs.
I'm lying on the floor in my studio. I fell asleep hoping I'd wake up in a dream and paint something decent. But I haven’t dreamt in years. I try to get up. My neck and back scream.
That's what sleeping on tile does, idiot.
It smells in here and it’s probably me.
PING!
All right, all right. "Open neural text.”
"OMFG, Jeremy. Check porch. YW." – Andy
I think that stands for you're welcome?
I wonder what he's up to. If I know Andy, this'll be trouble. More trouble than waking up on tile still half-wasted, I mean.
I find and eat a stale toaster pastry that, I'll be honest, tastes just like a fresh toaster pastry. I open the front door.
A brown paper bag.
Least it's not lit on fire. This time.
PING!
Another message from Andy. "You open it yet? It's a MUSE."
I've heard of MUSE. Some device that’s been circling the art world lately, a black-market kind of thing. It gets you so high you can paint like the gods. That’s what they say, anyway.
Andy's a good guy, trying to help me, but I ain't all that into tech. My friends had to pry my flip phone out of my hands. They suckered me into this stupid neural message line when I was high.
I take out the MUSE. It’s a small, black headband. Not sure what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. I read the manual.
MUSE (Multi-Unit Synaptic Enhancer) delivers focused stimulation to brain areas associated with creativity, imagination, and artistic expression, giving the user an integrated, multi-sensory experience. A secondary electrical signal activates the locus coeruleus, the part of the brain that focuses attention. . . blah, blah, blah.
So it's like mushies mixed with Adderall. Why don't they just say that?
Hm, it’s made by Turner Tech. Didn’t that company get sued for—
Another PING interrupts my thought. No wonder we need things like MUSE. The world won't shut up. Wish I could mute this neural texting thing.
Screw it. Andy’s a tech nerd. I’m sure he researched it well enough. I put the headband on and set it to MAX.
Thwooooosh.
Everything is black. And quiet.
I open my eyes. My lids are heavier than they should be. I take note of how I’m feeling. Definitely no Degas-level inspiration. Just a low-grade buzzing in my skull. Stupid thing is probably bogus.
PING! PING-PING-PING!
Seventeen unread messages? Damn. Guess this MUSE thing put me to sleep. The first text is from my sister.
"WTF? I needed you. You’re probably lying around wasted. I'm so done with you." – Meghan, 18h ago
Shit. I scroll through her earlier texts.
"Jer, 911, Mom & Dad, car accident." – Meghan, 34h ago
“Where are you? Things look really bad right now.” – Meghan, 30h ago
"Jeremy, PLEASE, we have to ID their bodies. I can't be alone." – Meghan, 24h ago
Oh my God. I frantically access the other texts. Maybe there’s one in there saying my parents are fine and it was a mistake.
Just one from Beth saying “Can’t do this anymore” followed by another from Andy, “Dude lemme explain about Beth. It didn’t mean anything, I swear.”
I grab at the MUSE and try to pull it off. Goddamn thing knocked me out that long?
Beth is right. I am a loser. How am I supposed to explain this one away? Sorry, Sis, I was high on some underground tech when Mom and Dad died.
Shit.
They’re better off without me. They’re all better off.
I should cry. That’s what someone does when they’ve just lost everything. But I can't. I can't because this sort of euphoric wave washes over me.
I have nothing anymore but a singular purpose that feels so clear now.
True art is birthed only from pain. The best artwork has always come with severed ears and dead lovers.
My would-be empty heart fills with the light of a thousand sunrises over Olympus. It’s warm and ambrosia-sweet. My fingers scream to paint something revolutionary. And not just on canvas. I want to create reality and existence itself. My old life has expired, anyhow.
I burst into my studio. White canvases along the walls scream to be filled with all the colors there are. And more colors. I will make them. I will invent them. I need only time to work.
I pick up my brush and face the largest canvas in the room. My steps feel holy and my body buzzes, like it knows it’s about to do something important.
I close my eyes and see rivers, oceans, planets, and a dozen other things waiting for me to paint them.
* * *
Andy stares at the MUSE app on his phone, jaw open. The video feed reflects across his lenses.
“Beth. It worked,” he says. “Holy crap. He’s painted three canvases already.”
“I don’t know, Andy. It feels messed up. I didn’t know MUSE was gonna make up all that stuff.”
“I know. It’s amazing. I wouldn’t have thought of all that.”
“Amazing? He thinks his parents are dead, Andy! And us?” Beth waves her pointer finger between the two of them. “Gross.”
Andy looks away from his app long enough to show he’s offended.
Beth grabs her purse and stands. “We crossed a line. I’m gonna tell him.”
“Not yet,” Andy says, rapt. Jeremy’s arms sweep grandly, furiously, across a canvas. “Just watch. This could be his masterpiece.”
Melinda A. Smith (she/her) is a science writer by day, fiction and poetry writer by night. She loves any tale that questions the fabric of reality and what it means to exist. Her first science fiction novella, SUM (Ellipsis Imprints), was long-listed with the British Science Fiction Association for best short fiction, 2022. In addition to writing, she produces albums of spoken word poetry set to original electronic music, under the artist name Iambic Beats. You can follow her on Twitter (@sciencegeekmel) or online at sciencegeekmel.com and iambicbeats.com.
Tabs
by River Lee
After the layoffs, my friends went to other factories while I went for a change of pace. I got myself a part-time gig at a café – all paid under the table. I must have been lucky, the boss was standing behind the counter when I walked in. I went up to him, introduced myself, and handed over my resume. Looking at me, he placed a hand under my chin and said, “You start tomorrow.”
Each day, around noon, customers would start trickling in. Most of them were friends of the boss, well-dressed in suits and leather shoes. They would order shots of espresso with grappa and leave generous tips before gathering around a large table, a group that grew as the day wore on, from three, to five, to seven men. They hung around for hours, having colourful discussions in a language that I didn’t understand.
Those were the best shifts. Money for practically nothing, smiling and serving, staying out of the way. Sure, my car was being repossessed, but between the café and my unemployment cheques, I could at least keep my lights on for another month. I could maybe even go to a pub and see a show with that girl, the one who’d never date me, but who’d no doubt let me pay for drinks.
The evening shifts brought different demands, and somehow, I wasn’t fired. I made repeated mistakes, things like snapping at customers, stepping on toes – literally and otherwise – (that’s okay, sweetheart) taking too long to fetch a glass of water (stupid bitch), spilling drinks (sweetheart), dropping plates (bitch), and as the boss loved to say, “making a career out of” little tasks like rolling utensils into napkins. So, when he started dipping into my tips, I accepted it as a rookie tax and thanked my lucky stars for one more day.
I thought it was over for sure when I spilled a beer on someone. I was serving two girls on the patio who’d come in for drinks. A patron bumped into me, causing me to tip the tray, which sent a bottle of Stella Artois cascading down, hitting the table, and splashing onto one of the girls, her white linen dress stained with patches of stinking booze.
I stood, paralyzed by shock, as her friend used a pile of napkins to mop up the puddle on the table in front of them. She was already doing better than me at my own job. My heart pounded while I waited for the girl’s reaction, but she was oddly calm. She said to me, “It’s fine, no problem.”
So, I went back inside to get a new beer, comped it from my own pocket, and the girls stayed. They finished their drinks and after some time, they left. I marveled at their mercy, reflected on how I’d escaped, how I’d managed to hang on. I felt relieved until returning to the scene, when I noticed what they’d left behind – two glaring coins, each plated in copper.
River Lee is an emerging writer from Windsor-Essex, Canada. She now lives in Montreal, where she is completing her debut novel — a queer coming of age story about a musician who is chasing dreams and facing realities. When not writing, River is playing guitar, hiking, or reading the latest book for the Violet Hour Book Club. You can find her on Instagram @riverlee_writer.
Entrance Exam
by Carisa Pineda
We’ve decided it’s best for you to live here. It’s violent there; I witnessed a murder and the coup. The school is a joke.
But I like it there; I say in my head. I smile instead and nod. The Swedish boy has left, but he said he would visit in October. Will he ask for me?
You’ll be around family. School starts next week; you have to take an entrance exam.
I don’t say that school doesn’t start for a month there or that no one consulted me.
I say, “Yes it’ll be good. I’ve always wanted to live near family. I look forward to starting fresh at a school that challenges me.”
Once I finish my contract in January, I’ll join you and your mother.
I pass the entrance test. Maybe it’s meant to be. Maybe I’ll be popular. Mama, Tía, my cousin, and I go to the uniform store. The polyester navy pants hurt my skin.
Too tight, Mama says. Hands me a larger size. I could stuff a pillow inside.
You have to get the guy shirts, says my cousin, they are cooler.
Is that right? Mama asks.
Yes, answers Tía, that’s what the kids are wearing.
No one asks me. The guy shirts button the other way; there’s plastic in the collar. It scratchy. My bra is visible through the thin material. The shirt bunches at the waist.
You’re supposed to wear penny loafers, my cousin insists.
“They’re out of style,” I say.
Not here.
“I want to wear black sneakers.”
Do you want to look cool or not? My cousin asks.
“You said I shouldn’t care about that.”
You shouldn’t, but you can’t show up tacky.
“It’s a uniform.”
You’re not going to wear your glasses, are you?
“I can’t see without them.”
We arrive at the school early. Tía is always late, so I lied about the start time. Gray cement and bars; like a prison, not like the school in Guatemala with ducks in the front yard, playground for the little ones, tether ball for the teens, the director cooking chilidogs for lunch, the Swedish boy putting rose petals in my hair. I get out of the van slowly. I enter the building; the principal approaches. Let me introduce you to some girls in your grade that are already here, Lani and Paula.
They look at me disinterested.
We’ll show you around. They stare at my glasses.
Lani is startling pretty, not dulled by the uniform; she has long glossy black hair. She says her family is from the Philippines. Paula is a Tica, like me. Her hair is blonde; her eyes clear and blue. They talk about Lani’s boyfriend. I walk a few steps behind. They forget I’m there.
And then what did he do?
He washed my hair.
Inside the high school students gather on the staircase exchanging hugs. No one introduces me. The bell rings, students move, a periwinkle and navy ocean. I don’t know where to go. I walk to the office. I see the principal. That’s right, I’m supposed to get your schedule. Sit down outside with Javier, he’s also going to be in your grade.
You’re new too?
“Yes.”
I’m Javier.
“Alexa.”
I’m not enrolled yet. Just took the exam.
“I’m waiting for my schedule.”
He’s wearing black pants instead of navy. I see a superman shirt underneath the periwinkle. He’s good looking, but not as good looking as the Swedish boy, his hair is too short. I can tell he’s Costa Rican because of his intonations.
It’s the first day and we’re already outside the principal’s office.
I smile. Is he staring at my glasses?
Where were you before?
“Guatemala. You?”
Fairfax, Virginia
“Really? I was living there before Guatemala.”
What high school?
“I would’ve gone to Woodson.”
That’s where I went!
The principal comes out.
Here’s your schedule. Okay Javi, step inside.
It was nice meeting you, see you later. Maybe we’ll have some classes together.
Second floor, room D. I knock. A guy with a light brown goatee opens the door.
“Is this 10th grade English?”
Yes.
No! someone yells, laughter erupts.
You’re a Junior, Pablo!
I forgot!
The class stares. “It says right here,” I say, but they don’t hear me over the laughter. The teacher comes and looks at my schedule.
They’ve given you last year’s schedule, dear.
I close the door and can still hear them laughing.
I never see Javier. He didn’t pass the entrance exam.
Carisa Coburn Pineda is from Costa Rica and the United States. She studied at Occidental College in Los Angeles and received her degree in Spanish Literature and English and Comparative Literary Studies. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Fiction from the University of Maryland, College Park. Carisa lives in Burke, VA with her family. She writes about language, culture, and loss. Carisa has work featured online and in print in literary magazines and collections. She can be found on Instagram @carisawrites and Twitter @CarisaCPineda.
Rest Ye Merry
by JC Reilly
The air conditioning inside the Sandpiper and Shrew cloys at Nick today, not unlike the sticky hands of the little kids who sit on his lap when he moonlights at the mall. He doesn’t like the cold, real or artificial, but he’s thirsty, and they know him here. He discovered this place the first time he’d flown down from the Pole to Hollow Shoe Key (the conventional way—crammed into coach like hens at an egg farm) sixteen years ago. He’d returned every summer to get away from the Missus, his retinue, and those eight stinking reindeer. And, more importantly, to get his drunk on.
“Two chocolate martinis,” Nick says. “Make ‘em doubles.”
“Buddy, now you know we don’t serve them prissy drinks,” the bartender drawls.
“Do you want to make the Naughty List, Aaron?”
Aaron frowns and drags out the chocolate liqueur, vanilla vodka, and half-and-half, and dumps them into a shaker. He makes a big show out of shaking and pouring the drink, à la Tom Cruise in Cocktail, gyrating his hips seemingly in spite of himself. Nick rolls his eyes, but accepts the martinis, slapping $30 on the bar.
“So, how’s your vacation going this year?” He hands Nick a stack of two-dollar bills in change.
“Can’t complain. Worked on my tan. Watched the surfers and the girls sashaying by in bikinis smaller than an elf’s goatee. Wish I could live here full time.”
“Why don’t you?”
Nick grunts. It’s the same question he’s asked himself for a decade. But moving corporate headquarters? Think of the children. (Think of the Russian tax breaks.) He grunts again. “Maybe someday.”
The bartender shrugs, and when Nick doesn’t elaborate, serves another customer.
***
The fact is, Nick loves Florida. The sleepy pace here in the Keys, the 14 hours of sunlight every day, and the dusty beach bungalows in peony pink and citron yellow make him forget all the hassle of home. He loves the stray cats that stretch out in the shade wherever you look, and the white soft sand that lodges in every crevice. He loves that people drink mai tais for breakfast and don’t give a rat’s ass about their cholesterol. Hollow Shoe, with its colony of faded stars, has-beens, and never-wases, had welcomed him as just another addition to the local scene. Nobody even asked for his autograph, after all this time.
Nick downs the last of the martini and motions for two more. Aaron nods.
“I leave tomorrow,” Nick says, feeling glum.
“Headin’ north already?”
“It’s four months to the big day.” Nick shudders. “Time flies or whatever.”
Aaron hands him two drinks. “People disappear down here all the time. You could too.”
Nick considers this a moment and laughs ruefully. “What are you saying? Just…don’t go back?”
“Why not?”
“Can’t you just see the headlines? Toy CEO Disappears in the Bermuda Triangle. World’s Children Devastated.” He feels a twinge at his heart when he thinks of the kids. And then he remembers the stench of mucking out reindeer stalls.
“Hollow Shoe’s a little outside the Triangle, Nick. But yeah. Disappear.”
The third and fourth martini ease Nick into a daydream. How much simpler his life would be. No more endless “Jingle Bells” and “Silent Night.” No more tinsel.
“But how?” he asks.
“Hell, same way we all did it. Me, Norma Jean, Kurt, Tupac. Prince, he’s the latest. Moved into Gull Alley Cottage two blocks over.”
Nick waits expectantly, his heart beginning to pound. Could this really be true?
The bartender continues, “I know a gal. Money changes hands. A plane mysteriously goes down. Believe me, they’ll search for you for a month, then find the wreckage off the coast of Miami. They’ll say you got eaten by the sharks when they can’t find a body. Easy as a fried peanut butter and ‘nana sandwich.”
He slides a business card across the bar to Nick, who examines it. A. Lindbergh, Deluxe Disappearances for World-Weary Clientele. And a phone number.
“She’ll help you out. Give her a call.”
Could he do it? Could he really vanish for good? And then he remembers the business, with all its built-in bureaucratic redundancy. That place practically runs itself. Surely any of his VPs could take over? Or his wife? (She’s always taking over everything anyway.) Nick slips his phone out of his pocket, his eyes staring at the number on the card.
“Well, Aaron—thank yuh, thank yuh verruh much,” Nick mimics, in his best impression of the other man, and laughs at the bartender’s expression.
“Ho ho no, that ain’t funny, Nick. Ain’t been funny for years.”
“Yes it is.” He hums a few bars of “Love Me Tender” as he dials. “Thanks again.”
Aaron winks, his lip curling in the process. “Sure thing…Santa.”
JC Reilly writes fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Grand Dame Literary Review, Boudin, Louisiana Literature, and many other journals. Her most recent chapbook, Amo e Canto, won the Sow’s Ear Poetry contest. Follow her on Twitter @Aishatonu or on IG @jc.reilly.
A Vulgar Display
by William Monette
I have written a ton of stories in my head that I have forgotten completely before I could get them down on paper. I have, likewise, written a lot of others much better in my head than they came out. They always come to me at night, but by the time I fumble in the dark for the light switch, find my glasses, and locate pen and paper, much has been lost.
This happens because God does not want me to be a writer. He told me so Himself. We play golf at the Salamander Club, off I-75 down in the green part of town where the old folk’s homes are. He says there are so many writers these days, though neither of us can name any. He smokes Camel cigarettes and drives a teal pickup from the mid-nineties.
I know He is the one true God because He said so, and God would not lie about that—though this is not to say He would not lie. I am not so sure how I feel about His claims that He has never really destroyed the world. He says The Flood did not happen like that. And the Cities on the Plain? He tells me His lawyer has advised Him not to discuss the matter. He claims to be the victim of libel and slander in these matters.
God is, of course, an abysmal golfer. I have asked Him why He does not use his powers to simply dominate the game. He tells me this would be a vulgar display of power. Even so, I did catch Him calling forth a bird to retrieve a ball from a distant mud bank on the fourth hole once. In general, He has an athletic swing that matches His wiry body. He looks taut and virile under His medium pastel polos. The head pro believes God should be much better than He is given the grace of His swing.
I have asked Him why He cannot tolerate one more writer. I said that the world is big. I said one more writer would not disrupt His grand plan.
“Oh I can’t stand that,” He answered. “This notion that there is a grand plan. There’s what, seven billion of you? There have been many billions before you and there will be many billions more after you. You think I have time to orchestrate all your lives?”
I agreed that this sounded exhausting. He continued: “the truth of the matter is that I like you quite a bit. But some people must be ordinary. You can’t all be geniuses or billionaires or presidents. If everyone could be extraordinary, the whole meaning of the thing would be lost. So, most people must live dull, mundane lives so that the special ones know they’re special.”
I nodded. This made sense on a fundamental level, but it also seemed unfair. I did not have to say this aloud, for He, being the Omnipotent, Lord Almighty, could read my thoughts.
“‘I work in mysterious ways.’ ‘The gifts of the Almighty are weighed and parceled out in a scale peculiar to Himself.’ So on and so on. Etcetera, etcetera. Now please, give me a minute to hit this drive.”
I stepped back and gave Him the tee-box. He took a mighty lash and sliced the ball seventy yards right into the trees. Obviously, I let Him have a do-over.
William Monette was born and raised outside of Detroit, Michigan. He holds an MFA from Columbia University. He currently lives in Washington DC with his dog. His work has previously appeared in The Ravens Perch, The Great Lakes Review, The Ponder Review, Typishly, FLARE: The Flagler Literary Review, and SHARKREEF.
Family Heritage
by Gustavo Melo
You can call me dumb if you’d like, but I prefer to think of myself as innocent. Growing up, I was constantly bullied because of my name, Oedipus. To all the other kids it sounded foreign and weird, but my parents were art snobs that wanted to be different. I prayed my eighteenth birthday would fly by so I could legally change my moniker to Bob or something else mundane. And that was before I was even introduced to the Greek play my parents so much enjoyed.
Mrs. Finneckler was one of those self-aggrandizing, private liberal arts school, English teachers. She thought it would be enlightening to introduce our sixth-grade class to the Greek tragedy. Mind you, it’s a 9th to 10th-grade level read. I never thought the bullying could get any worse, but it did. However, I no longer cared about what happened in school, I went home that afternoon convinced I would have to bed my mother and kill my dad. That’s very confusing for a boy who just recently discovered his sexuality and had already experienced the bewildering trauma of jerking off to a leftover bra his mom forgot in the bathroom.
Yes, mom showed signs she was once beautiful, but she was my mother. And my dad wasn’t a strong man by any means, but I was a pretty realistic twelve-year-old who chose chess lessons instead of karate; my chances of taking him seemed pretty low. That’s where my innocence comes in, I thought regardless of my love for my dad, and my strictly platonic love for my mom, I was convinced I would have no choice. It seemed inevitable.
That night I skipped dinner and cried myself to bed. Around midnight I ran out of tears and decided to turn on Cinemax, which my parents paid for the actual movies. The softcore porn playing would be the perfect distraction to my problems if it wasn’t for the main actress’s stage name: Adriana, just like my mother’s real name.
For a week, I could barely look either one of my parents in the face. It took them probably too long, but finally, they suspected something was wrong. After a long discussion where I had to prove I wasn’t doing drugs, I finally came clean and explained my newfound fear. They both thought it was funny, which felt disrespectful to my feelings. However, they explained my mother was infertile and I was adopted, something they had decided to wait until I was old enough to find out. They were thinking the age of fifteen, but something about me already thinking about fucking my mother hinted I was growing up fast.
I thought naming your adopted kid Oedipus was even worse than if it was your biological son. The shock of being adopted was softened by the relief of no longer feeling like I would have to poison my dad’s matinal pineapple smoothies.
The whole thing eventually switched my perspective on my name; it gave it some fucked up inside joke context that I appreciated. Still, the fear of the irony stayed with me for a long time. I purposefully avoided older women and constantly reminded myself that murder is bad, even in traffic. When I finally turned eighteen, I no longer wanted to change my name, I was used to it being misspelled everywhere.
It wasn’t until a girlfriend went through my computer and pointed out how much stepmother porn I watched that I realized how big of an impact this whole thing had on me. But my biggest takeaway was that as humans we absolutely have free will. Whether or not I have sex with my mother and kill my father is my own choice. It isn’t because I have a weird name that I am destined to do weird things. That is why when I was thirty and received a letter and a current photo of this gorgeous woman claiming to be my biological mother wanting to meet, I trashed the note and changed addresses. Because I might have free will, but I’m not sure I have self-control.
Gustavo Melo (he/him) is a Brazilian satirical writer with a successful track record of one failed marriage by the age of 25. Knowing little about smart financial decisions, he got a highly practical master's degree in writing for screen and television at the University of Southern California. To deal with those and other failures, he often writes humorous pieces which he workshops by testing whether his therapist will finally throw in the towel. You can read his work in the Feminine Collective, Apricity Magazine, and other publications. He can be found on Instagram @gusbmelo.