Short Beasts

It’s amazing the amount of drivel that fills a TV screen after 1 a.m. Stephanie thought to herself as she pumped the channel button on her remote and watched a series of dismal choices roll by. This was no trivial matter. She had always had a problematic relationship with night time silences, and so finding the right distraction was essential. Several decades earlier, she could overcome the night through the strains of New York City’s last great progressive rock station. She spent so much time listening to one overnight DJ that the two of them used to exchange Christmas cards. Somewhere along the line though, the radio lost its magical nocturnal powers. The rock station went Top 40. The sports talk station that replaced it on her playlist was a constant reminder of the failings of the only sports team she really cared about. Eventually, she had abandoned the radio and returned to finding nocturnal solace the way she had when her anxieties were fewer and her life experience shorter— late night television.

Of course, tonight was different. On this rarest of nights, she was seeking a way to stay awake rather than to fall asleep. She had a task to fulfill and time was running out. An unmet challenge, evinced by a mostly empty page on her laptop, had been mocking her for the past four days. So far, all she had been able to produce was a total of six words. “What can one say about Will?” With only hours to go before she was scheduled to speak at his memorial service, she still had no idea how to answer her own question.

Once upon a time, the challenge would have been to tame the torrent of words she could say about Will. Over the course of about 15 years, he had played so many roles in her life, including three years as her lover. When they separated, for reasons she now refuses to recall, it wasn’t rancor that created a chasm. It was just the humdrum shifting of priorities that occur when people part.  For the past decade or so, their relationship consisted of vague exchanges on social media that were replete with promises to “get together one day.” Though Stephanie had gradually acknowledged that “one day” was never coming, it seems Will never made that deduction. The fact that he had requested she speak at any memorial that might be held after his passing confirmed that. Now she grieved mostly because, once Will was erased, any incarnation of “one day” had been erased as well. How could their priorities have gotten so out of sync?

Stephanie hit the television remote another time. She was seeking not just adrenaline, but also a way to stave off the toxic bile of regret rising within her. Yet, it seemed late night TVs ability to be a soothing voice in the darkness had also gone the way of the pet rock and Tab. As a teen, she could tune into the black and white films screened on “The Late Late Show,” a program that featured a signature opening graphic of lights going off within an apartment building. She smiled briefly in the knowledge that, just like in that graphic, hers might be the only light still on in the spare brick building where she lived.  It’s like she managed to take refuge in the fleeting image of that building. However, “The Late Late Show” had also left her and now she was truly alone in the dark.

Click. Would listening to NY1 discuss the Met Gala help her get this task done? Probably not. Before red carpet shows became television staples, she and Will did enjoy poking fun at some of the more outlandish fashion looks at awards shows, particularly those worn by celebrities whose fame we couldn’t fathom. But, as much as she loved Will’s acerbic wit at moments like those, this was not the side of him she wanted to share. 

Getting up to stretch her legs, Liz stopped to look out the window. The thickest part of the night was upon the city, a time when fears often melded with dreams, and the darkness could be warm and inviting to nocturnal creatures like herself…and Will. Before their shifting relationship navigated them into the same bed, they would often chat on the phone in the wee morning hours, usually about which rerun of the Mary Tyler Moore show was on that night, or what interesting observation Tom Snyder had just made on the “Tomorrow” show. Their standard closing words to each other at the end of these calls were “Turn off the set.” Those words acknowledged more than the powering down of a mechanical device. It mourned the sad temporary break of the connection between them, thus making the phrase resonate more than “I love you” ever could.

Now, remembering those words in Will’s warm baritone sparked the direction she had been seeking. With a final click on the remote, the set went blank. The silence of the night she usually worked so hard to avoid suddenly hummed with memories of Will and the ticking clock beat of the old “Late Late Show” theme song. “What can one say about Will?” might be too broad a question to answer, but she could share who Will was at 1 a.m. on a random morning. And it made her miss him just a little bit less.

---

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and DarkWinter Literary Journal. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and suffering along with her beloved New York Mets.

Kristina removed the letter from her apron pocket and gingerly unfolded it. She had read its contents often enough that the paper was already starting to fray at the edges. If she closed her eyes, she could see the words in front of her. But, they were still like so many snowflakes melting on contact.

She shook her head as if to dislodge whatever was affecting her usually sharp perceptions. Her education to this point had been less than formal, but it had enabled her to sniff out the liminal spaces between what is said and what is meant. She had learned these lessons while eking out a living in this guesthouse, where the owner was happy to turn a blind eye to her age in exchange for untold hours of cheap labor. Till now, it was an exchange Kristina had been happy to make. Yet, she feared the heightened sense of what is not said that she learned within these walls had somewhat dulled her responses to plain words. Or, perhaps she was just too invested in the impact to her life the letter’s text could make possible to let herself comprehend its meaning. Too much was at stake, so she needed to find a more visceral way to connect with the significant sentiments on the page.

Tentatively, she placed a finger on the greeting. “Dear Kristina” meant this letter was for her, so she continued to trace words, like a sightless person reading braille.

“We are happy to welcome you to our freshman class,” it read. “Happy” and “Welcome.” These are words of greeting and good cheer, she thought to herself. So far, so good. “Freshman class?” She searched the internal dictionary she had painstakingly created by spending countless hours in the tiny library of her tiny town. After a few seconds of somewhat strained focus, the definition came to mind. “Freshman: a first-year student.” Or, she quietly acknowledged, a student at the beginning of her education.

Downstairs, she heard the kitchen crew cleaning up breakfast. She was due to change the bedding on the third floor and knew she shouldn’t be lingering. Yet, as the light through the window temporarily illuminated the darkened hallway, she felt the need to stay right where she was for just one more minute.

The snowflakes melted away with the morning sun. “Welcome,” she said out loud to no one. The beds could wait. She was expected elsewhere.

---

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and DarkWinter Literary Journal. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and suffering along with her beloved New York Mets.

She patiently lies on a blanket of marble. Her shot mother’s face on a bodiless skin splayed out on the floor beside her.

Still as the other exhibits which adorn the room. Extensions of a two-legged ego.

Her motionless tail pretends:
I have forgotten who I am.

Her silent lips reassure:
You are my father. You are my master.

As a chunk of death is tossed her way the metal arm that holds her chain wriggles like blades of grass in the wind. An emerald paradise that for two tiny months had belonged to her. She knew it never would again. Self-emancipation always had a cost, and the world had so many guns, and so many people who were yearning to use them.

But she would rather die as a tiger, than as his plaything―and leaping above into a higher air, she makes a first and final kill.

---

Amy Akiko is an educator, artist and writer from South London. Her writing predominately gravitates towards the themes of nature, love and (all too often) heartache, and has appeared in East of the Web, Litbreak, The Tiger Moth Review, Cosmic Daffodil, Isele Magazine and elsewhere.

He watched the train come into the station, little flashes of blue electricity snapping on the overhead wires as it hissed to a stop. He waited for passengers to get off before he swung himself up the step and entered the car. It was early evening and he was tired, it had been a long day already. He shook his wet coat in the aisle before selecting a seat, then tucked it in the overhead slot and sat next to the window. He looked at the station lights, deep haloed orange, until they passed into the outskirts of town, under a bridge picking up speed and then the last houses gave way to fields and neat parcels of forest. Rain was streaking across the window, shivers of wet trails that pooled, then formed little rivers at the edge of the glass.

He stretched his legs before opening the newspaper and placing it on his lap. The paper he had no intention of reading, preferring instead to stare unfocused on the passing landscape, one he knew well.

A woman slid into the seat next to him. She was breathing hard and seemed anxious.

“You don’t mind, do you? There is a man back there and he has been bothering me. He frightened me.” The man turned to look behind him, but the woman grabbed his chin and and directed him to look at her.

“Don’t look back, please. Just pretend we are a couple. Lovers on the evening train.” She smiled, then looked out the window.

He couldn’t help but notice that the woman was quite beautiful, her long brown hair framed her face in such a way that it reminded him of a living portrait. He sat back and tried to relax but found himself folding and unfolding the newspaper on his lap.

“I’m Claire. I’m sorry to barge in on you. I know how nice it is to get two open seats.” She laughed and he saw her eyes brighten. She looked even more attractive when she smiled.

They talked for a while, a pleasant rambling conversation. He was surprised to hear himself telling her stories from his childhood. He rarely talked about anything personal. She closed her eyes, the steady rhythmic motion of the train seemed to make her drowsy. Her head moved to his shoulder and her arm fell to his leg. She smelled wonderful and he sat still, not wanting to disturb her rest. What he really wanted was to wrap her up in a hug, but he was not that sort of man.

The train slowed as they entered Banford station. The change of movement woke her and she reached across him, her hand pushing against his chest until she rose to a sitting position. She yawned and looked into his eyes before standing up.

“This is me. Again, thank you for helping. You are a true gentleman.” She kissed him quickly on his cheek and rose to leave. He watched her walk to the door then saw her standing on the platform. She waved to him and blew him a kiss, then turned and went into the station house. He turned his attention back to the paper on his lap. The last passengers wandered down the aisle to choose seats and the train lurched as it pulled out of the station. He rolled his wrist to check the time on his watch, but his watch was gone. Then he felt in his pockets for his cell phone and wallet. Everything was gone. He pictured the woman who sat beside him before reaching into his boot for his other phone.

“Mills here. Can you patch me through to the duty sergeant?” While he waited for his call to go through, he wondered how the woman would react when she opened the wallet and found the neat stack of cut paper bingo forms.

“Hey Gerald. She got off at Banford station. Five foot ten, long brown hair, attractive. She has my cell so you can trace that. Cheers. I’ll circle back.”

He leaned back and watched the streets flash by, car lights splintered by the rain.

---

Christopher Porter used to travel the world shooting films until M.S. robbed him of most of his mobility. He now lives next to the Atlantic ocean and writes stories. His first novel won the Arthur Engle award and he is almost finished editing his next. Learn more on his site.

B,

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Do you remember that night on the retreat, where we stayed up late sitting out on the porch? The kids were all asleep. Do you remember how everything felt alright for a while?

The stars were out. It was the first time I had seen them since I moved to the city. We had only known each other for like three weeks.

I’ve been thinking about everything that came after. Making love in your room under the glow of your Christmas lights. How you cried and I held you until you stopped shaking. Our argument in the park, and how I apologized and how it wasn’t enough. How all around us were people enjoying themselves, skating and playing volleyball, happy.

But on that night, we were close. We were in it together. You put your chin on my shoulder and cried because the day had been so hard and we hadn’t had time to breathe. And you hugged me and it was like we were one for a moment, like there was barely anything separating us, just a thin wall, just our skin. And the night was just starting to get cool but it wasn’t cold. And we watched the flashlights going by on the path, so dim that we weren’t sure if they were real. They could have been kids sneaking out, or nightwatchmen, or ghosts. And we worried that someone would see us with my arm around you and we would have to hide.

So much has happened since then. And sometimes I feel this blackness inside me. Like the winter night is sapping all the heat from my body and making me shiver and shiver and be unable to stop. Has so much time really passed? Has the summer really ended? And it makes me wonder if the night will end.

I wrote a poem that I never finished, and the first line was “I know that I’m in love because I’m afraid.” And I thought then, love is stronger than fear. Love will overcome fear. It has to. And I kissed you as the cold was coming in.

---

Ed King is a writer based in Colorado. His stories can be found in the Colorado’s Emerging Writers series, Synchronized Chaos, and Cultured Vultures; his plays have been performed in China, and his storytelling has been featured on KUNC. He wants to write stories that broaden the possibilities for joy in life. He is sometimes successful.

The sugar glider took a few halting steps in the box, trampling a typed note. The few people Ronald knew wouldn’t leave an animal on his doorstep. Perplexed, he picked up the sheet of paper.

“He was too much work for us. The exotics shelter was full. We know you’re a trustworthy person.”

Though the note was unsigned, this moment seemed to bulge with fate. Ronald had never had a pet before, much less a sort he’d only seen in pictures — never thought he could justify one, the work, the expense, mostly the downright self-indulgence of demanding something love him. But now the responsibility had been given him, and he would care for the wide-eyed little creature wholly. He cupped tender hands around the sugar glider.

It lifted too easily. Ronald turned over the hollow animal. There was a battery compartment. He dropped the lifeless thing.

Two teenagers giggled. Ronald glimpsed too late the camera of their mobile phone lowering, and the youths darted down the street, laughing at their prank.

So quickly had a space within him been created, filled, and emptied! He ran after the teens, though whether he caught them or not, he didn’t know what he would do.

---

Kimberly Y. Choi often writes speculative fiction, but not this time. Her writing of late tends towards themes of mental health. She lives in the United States.

Homage to “Gas” by Edward Hopper

Today we should think of what a dented orange gasoline can would look like somewhere on a road in New England.

It is sometime in the 1940s and it is Halloween and there is a blue and white gas pump at the filling station where the can sits next to a yellow wooden rest room.

It is Halloween night on a country road and the office window is open and there are soft waves of big band music coming out of the large brown radio next to the red cash register.

We should recognize the thundering paper as cavernous empty old shopping bags.

Five children have already cried Trick or Treat!

The manager smilingly dumps heavy clusters of candy into each child’s bag, echoing the kettle drum from the jazz orchestra while his helper augments the effect by giving the empty gasoline can several rhythmic taps.

The brightly lit office is a gigantic geometrical owl and the children follow their father’s flashlight as it slices up the breezy black road.

---

Peter J. Dellolio was born in 1956 in New York City. Went to Nazareth High School and New York University. Graduated 1978: BA Cinema Studies; BFA Film Production. Poetry, prose-poems, fiction, short plays, art work, and critical essays published in over 80 literary magazines, journals, and anthologies. Poetry collections “A Box Of Crazy Toys” published 2018 by Xenos Books/Chelsea Editions; “Bloodstream Is An Illusion Of Rubies Counting Fireplaces” published February 2023 and “Roller Coasters Made Of Dream Space” published November 2023 by Cyberwit/Rochak Publishing. His novella “The Vigil” by Type 18 Books and his novel “The Confession” by Cyberwit will be out shortly.

It happens in a flash, a blip on the screen of life. The first day the numbness wraps itself around your chest, compressing until the last gasp of air escapes from your lungs. Rational reasoning does not quell the loneliness, and your memory tumbles backward to deter the coming of tomorrow, to protect against the present, to preserve the past, so the truth does not consume you, never to listen to the words of encouragement, endearment, or the flippant teasing of your weaknesses which brought a smile on a sullen day.

You attempt sleep, but the sadness evaded for the moment slams you in the face with its cold, hard fist and you cry out, even with the knowledge that this time comes for everyone. Celebrate the life, you tell yourself, a life filled with hardships but outweighed by the joy of being surrounded by love.

The light of a brand-new day welcomes you, reminding you the invitation does not extend to everyone. You struggle through the kind but meaningless words of those who knew him superficially, or not at all, and the intimate reminisces of those he held close. Some may know a darker side of him, shades of gray which you may have witnessed, a side he did not share with you, a side you convinced yourself did not exist.

You refuse to wear black, which represents the Reaper’s hand and the color of his work. Tomorrow, all physical connections end, and you have no preference what form his remains take. It is not your choice.

As the sun rises and greets you, this final farewell crushes you and erases the last vestige of the brave front you put forward. You march behind the vessel, but he is already on the other side. His presence engulfs you, and you swear an oath to hold tight, to imagine the expression he would make at an utterance of folly that you are capable of committing.

They ask you to say a few words, an anecdote, a tribute, but you possess neither the strength nor desire to deliver words that hold meaning only to you. Today the sky is clear except for a white streak splashing across the blue canvas. It disappears into the heavens. Your feet sink into the soft earth and your legs cannot support the weakness of your heart, as your swollen eyes cower behind dark glasses, your throat parched, your lips quivering, and you want to let the ground swallow you as well.
You release the red rose into the abyss. A snippet of wind brushes your back, and you smile against your tears, a gentle hand encouraging you to continue the rest of your journey.

---

Greetings. Laurence Williams writes after many years in the Bronx court system. His work appears in the First Line Literary Journal, Read650 Magazine, Sunspot Literary Journal, and Two Hawks Quarterly Magazine. He is a member of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and the Gryphons Writers Group. Born and raised in the Bronx, he resides in the Hudson Valley with his wife Claudia and their cat Charlie. X: @Williams1Lau

As I walk down the alley, torn tights under my umbrella, I ponder how I look to passersby on the street.

Split-second decisions are the best decisions.

I suppose, even if only best in the moment. But each moment is all we have.

The street juts out from the crumbling alley. Streetcars pass alongside me like ghost ships through heavy fog. The same fog fills my brain. I try to clear it, lay a hand on something concrete, something simple and true. Something logical. I need truth, one truth. But there are too many.

Addiction. Those afflicted with what they once began and now regret. Billowy drug addicts. Philandering men and women out in the nightclubs, when it’s dark enough to hide themselves between streetlights. Those who are so burdened with a mind of strong idealism they can’t let go of what they hoped was real.

Yes, I was addicted.

A memory, unwanted. From the party.

“Do you drink a lot?”

I hesitate before I answer. “These days, yes.”

“You shouldn’t drink. It’s not good for your health.” He pulls the long roach out from between his lips and twirls it around his finger.

What’s the word?

Hypocrite.

I have never met someone so conflicted.

He smiles. It’s the regretful smile of one who has lost hope in ever returning to the way things used to be. I’ve seen enough people like that. I was on the road straight for it, if not already there.

“I tried to quit last week,” he says, his voice soft as butter.

But he didn’t need to speak this. I could see inside him as if there was no wall. As if he didn’t build it up—year after year, using hand after blistered hand—growing taller with every injury-inducing, painful blow. Oh yes, how I knew that all too well.

Tonight, his walls were molten lava, cascading down before him—scalding but endearing. And I was attracted.

I could see every little bit that he tried to hide. And I loved it.

“I’ve heard that split-second decisions are the best decisions,” he says. But he doesn’t move. I don’t move.

We read each other silently. I know he won’t do anything, won’t try anything. No, it’s too early for that.

I know him, though I have only just met him. Even before he ever glanced in my direction, I knew him.

I knew how he saw things, how he idealized, and what he had been through. We are both people that will never be happy being happy. He knows as well as I do what is to become of this if we start.

But no matter how many times we make the same mistake (or call it what you like), no matter how much we learn from it and know what we aren’t supposed to do, we will still do it.

And we do it.

The sky brightens slowly, an eternity, as I flatten my skirt down to sit on the edge of the bus stop bench. It’s too cold for a skirt. A seemingly endless winter is approaching. And there is something beautiful about it all.

Addiction. It’s in the things you keep coming back to, despite knowing better. It’s the cigarettes you can’t quit, the numbing feeling of a hit you can’t seem to shake. It’s going through the motions. The tossing turning turmoil of up and down emotions. The highs and lows, the pick-you-ups, and the deep steep drops. The feeling in the beginning, of hope and perfection. The feeling in the end, of hopelessness and desperation. Albert Einstein said, insanity is doing the same things over and expecting different results.

It appears our sanity has depleted. But did I expect different results?

I watch the bus drive off.

Split-second decisions are the best decisions.

I step onto the wet side street and into the sunrise. Toward his place.

---

Robin Nemesszeghy enjoys weaving fantastical elements into realistic settings and exploring the complexities of the human mind. Living a stone’s throw away from a quiet wooded cemetery and park, when she’s not writing you can often find her wandering the area and dreaming up her next big adventure. Read more about her journey.

This would be a good time to wake up, I think, realising that Síofra’s blue Fiesta has vanished from where she had parked it less than two hours before. But I’m sure I saw it less than five minutes ago when I carried the harpist instrument to her van. I’d felt obliged to help after she’d woven a sublime backdrop to the reading which had brought us to Dublin in the first place.

Thanks to Síofra, the poet had addressed our writers’ group a few weeks before and had then invited us to the Dublin launch of her new collection. We are a motley collection, mostly female, ranging from two girls in their twenties to a pair of spritely eighty-something-year-old sisters. I am one of only three males in the group, but the other two are rarely seen and, even then, only as a couple. Our present incarnation has been running for about eighteen months, but some of our members had been writing long before Síofra’s arrival in our midst.

I’m not the only one who fancies Síofra. She is our anchor and hasn’t only brought vibrancy to our little group but is already fine tuning our first collaborative of poetry and prose. After the poet’s invitation, the excitement in the pub was infectious. Everybody was going to Dublin and, had the launch been on the following evening, we would have booked and paid for a coach right there and then. As days went by, however, the numbers began to dwindle, until only Síofra and I remained. All thoughts of a coach forgotten, Síofra offered to drive to the city and, as my wife was away visiting with her parents, suggested that we stay for the post-launch drinks party and then overnight at her sister’s city centre apartment.

A figure hovers in the mouth of the alley, furtively glancing right and left, its hands apparently hidden in the pouch of a dark hoodie. At a distance of some fifty metres, it’s impossible to tell whether the person is male or female, young or old, friend or foe. I feel the hairs stiffen at the back of my neck. I’m not familiar with this part of the city. If I were to turn and walk in the opposite direction, would I emerge into a well-lit thoroughfare and find safety in the anonymity of strangers, or end up trapped in a totally blind alley? Waving her thanks, the harpist had driven back in the direction from which we had come, over the exact spot where the figure now loiters. The sound of barking dogs comes from somewhere behind me: large dogs. Is this my reward for assisting the harpist, or my punishment for harbouring hopes of sharing Síofra’s bed in her absent sister’s apartment?

The shadowy figure approaches; a street light reflects evilly from something clutched in the slender hand. I know it’s not a gun; neither do I think that it’s a knife. Could it be an ice pick? I’ve only ever seen ice picks in American movies, but whatever it is; it’s getting nearer – and fast. I glimpse a flash of face beneath the hood. It’s a young face, fresh – a teenager? My confidence surges.

I move forward, my laptop bag held like a shield before me. Why is the bag so light; what has become of my laptop? I can see the weapon more clearly now. It looks like a wire coat hanger, wound around the wrist; a six inch spike clasped between thumb and forefinger. I feint with my bag, and then feel the weight of the power pack in the pocket. I rip the Velcro open, pull out the apparatus and swing the heavy adaptor towards the head of my nemesis. I miss, but the evasive action causes the hood to slip back, baring the aggressor’s head. Watching her golden curls flow free of their restraint, I gasp Síofra’s name. Landing with a thump on my bedroom floor, I decide it might be for the best if Síofra were to attend the Dublin launch on her own.

---

From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s first publication was in 2004. Since then, almost 100 of his stories have appeared in print and digital anthologies and magazines in Ireland, Britain, Europe, Australia, India, USA, South America, and Canada. A Pushcart nominee, he is a winner of The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh, (five times) and The Ireland’s Own, (twice) short story awards. He has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013).

It was my turn to count the money. Usually between one and two million on any given day.

Jane: don’t mess it up.

I never do. The ten key calculator was like an extension of my arm. I had a little wooden desk inside the vault, which felt closed in. Bags of money on the floor, coins, bills, everything. It all had to be verified. It took most of the day.

Jane: has to be done by four so I can get home to the kids!

We got an hour lunch and I took every minute. The taco spot was only a short drive and my friend Jenny worked there, but I didn’t like to talk to her wile she was working and I was in my dress up clothes for the bank. It felt odd. Like I was making fun of her or something.

Her car was there, and she usually worked at the counter, so I went through the drive through and sat in the parking lot eating in my car and I see Jenny coming out and walking towards the car. I roll down the window, summer air enters, humid.

Jenny: what the hell?
Just eating lunch.
Jenny: if you came inside I’d give you free nachos.

She brought the nachos and cheese over and sat with me in a booth. The air conditioning was cold. She was on her break.

Her: I’m so tired of this stuff, I usually bring a salad.
Me: sometimes I go eat at my grandma’s.
Her: why didn’t you come in?
Me: I feel weird in my shirt and tie.
Her: You know I make more per hour than you do right?

The nachos were hot, salty, crunchy, the cheese tasted of nothing mixed with fat globules. It was very orange.

I’m thinking about dropping out.
Me: Oh yeah?
I’m eighteen. I can right? The manager here said I could transfer.
Me: that sounds good.
Mom said she don’t care. Just do what you want. It’s your life.

My hour was almost up and I knew I had to get back to the vault to finish counting the money so that Jane could get home on time.

I’ve got to get going.
Jenny: yeah, sure…sure. Want a refill?

She brought me a refill of soda and she kissed my cheek.

Just in case I don’t see you again.

---

Jesse Dart is a writer and photographer living out west. Influenced by his studies in anthropology, he is attracted to ideas about adventure, travel, society, and culture. His work has been featured in Monocle, The Guardian, Roads & Kingdoms, The Art of Eating, Vice, and Whalebone. He publishes short stories and photos at Art of the Escape.

A single man on a leash, bound, naked, flinging around. His eyes are broken, his soul is red.

BOUND FOR CULIACÁN. GUILTY OF TREASON

Roiling gates and a tiled plaza. Jeering women with heavy breasts and dyed skirts. Boys sell bananas. Fry bread oils. One dog yaps at another.

The man sheds a tear as he is lead through the procession. A seamed face, now pelted with day old fruit.

Up the steps, to a flowering gibbet. He writhes, he wiggles, he’s gone.

A hundred cries fill the air. Hats and humorismo to celebrate damnation.

“Do you think he was guilty?” one man says to another.

“No. I think he believed in something”.

---

Christopher C Tennant is a Denver, Colorado native who mainly writes poetry, short stories, and literary or experimental works. He has previously published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Atlas Obscura, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, among many other places.

Onion could have lifted his foot and pressed the brake. But this was the fifth jaywalker he had seen on the highway that month, and so far, the discomfort of shifting from gas to brake had brought him neither good nor bad. He could have kept doing the same thing, but what would that change? Wasn’t he alive in the first place because God had decided things couldn’t stay the same forever? Didn’t his mom assign him a name by randomly picking a word from the dictionary after growing tired of the generic names she had given his siblings?

Onion felt that familiar feeling wash over him once more as if passed down from his creators—his mother and God. It was an innate feeling beyond reason, a primal force that preceded all else. That force, heavier than gravity itself, anchored his foot on the pedal.

***

Now he was bored, staring at the struggling body of the jaywalker on the ground, thinking about the hours of paperwork ahead—something he wouldn’t have to do if people ever got bored enough of paperwork one day. Almost everything was a matter of time and perspective, both of which were a matter of boredom.

He regretted it all. His conscience weighed on him now, but why? Because it had not weighed on him a minute ago, and that had brought him neither good nor bad. The elections were coming up—a time of change. Which candidate had promised to kill fewer Middle Eastern children? That would be Onion’s choice—he wanted different rewards for the taxes he paid and the points he earned from the gas station.

Did people avoid evil or boredom? Every American knew it was evil to kill innocent children, but were they bored enough of it? Onion knew he was bored; he needed something else. The government had failed to address Onion’s boredom. Perhaps he shouldn’t bother voting this time, since voting had done him neither good nor bad so far.

Onion got back in the car and continued driving. When his favorite song started playing on the radio, he stopped the engine and lay down on the road. He stared up at the stars, trying to pick the most beautiful one of all.

What is beauty? The purposive without purpose. What is ugly? These words that expire by the minute, as they attain their purpose. And who is the culprit? Reason—a corpse with a foul smell, rotten like God. Whenever anyone opened their mouth to speak, Onion could smell the stench of reason, and its constant presence made him sick.

Onion realized all of this thinking did him neither good nor bad, so he stopped. A car came speeding by and cut Onion in half. No more change, no more driving, no more running over others and being run over by others. When Onion died, he brought tears to the eyes of those closest to him.

---

Bora Barut is a Turkish-Canadian honours philosophy student in his fourth year at the University of British Columbia. As a passionate emerging writer, his thought-provoking works have earned him invitations to present at esteemed institutions like UCLA, Northwestern University, and the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. In addition to publishing both philosophical and fictional pieces, he serves as the chief editor of UBC’s Journal of Philosophical Enquiries. In his free time, he enjoys reading, playing board games, and spending time with his partner.

She was 5’2, maybe 100 pounds. I started taking note a year ago, dark hair to her shoulders, ruddy sun browned face and hands. Dressed in neutral tans, greys – shirt, slacks that looked well-worn, more part of the persona than the outfit. She would be walking near the boardwalk, but just as often five miles inland on the Boulevard. Away from the beach no one walks except the homeless, certainly not for miles, and never in the summer sun. She may have been homeless, but no belongings, her gait seemed determined but not rushed. Power-walker outings are a small part of the day. They dress for the workout, careful to hydrate. I envisioned her legs to be hard as steel, her ventures seemed perpetual. I spotted her daily. As it became ritual to be on the lookout, the frequent occurrences increased. She walked all the time – for a living, or on a mission. A mythic trek, perhaps her monastery burned down – if stopped, or accosted, perhaps martial arts. Taoism emphasizes action without intention, simplicity, spontaneity. The Walker was for me the embodiment of this discipline, achieving perfection, becoming one with the unplanned rhythms of the all. The myth grew with each sighting. I did not approach her or attempt to engage. I’m sure I didn’t want the intrigue to end. I was reminded of the monk’s story of the man who kept running faster to escape his shadow until he died, when all he needed to do was step into the shade.

---

Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. Craig houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems in a folder on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight. After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Hamilton Stone Review, The Wise Owl, Dark Winter and several dozen other journals.

Holding a candle on the beach, she looked at the circle of lights the others had placed. The thought of the burial came to her. She heard someone crying, maybe her mother. As soon as it came, the crying disappeared into the soft steps of people passing behind her, some looking at her as they walked beside the ocean. She didn’t notice them. Wind moved her hair almost like a forgiveness but did nothing to the flames. The light of the candles warmed her face as she breathed in deeply, her back straight. As she exhaled, the flame wavered. She moved slowly, placing the candle in with the others, the sand falling toward the candle as though it were trying to stop its entry. Standing up she closed her eyes, her head bending toward her shoes. They were Converse, torn by the years. Opening her eyes, her posture began to bend into that of an old woman. She lifted her hood above her head. A cane appeared in her hand. Her hair became gray and her eyes grew heavy and her face was now deep with wrinkles. She shuffled toward the ocean. She wanted a good look at all that water.

---

Cole Hersey is a writer, illustrator, and journalist based in Oakland, California. He is the creator of the weekly culture and essay newsletter Big Little Things on Substack. His feature work has been published in the Pacific Sun, Bay Nature, Earth Island Journal, and elsewhere. His fiction and poetry has been published in many journals such as Parentheses, Wales Arts Review, and 7×7.LA. While his writing often focuses on natural landscapes and ecology, his fiction often grapples with many forms of loss, and how the absences of things shape our lives.

My dear,
When I die, I want to come back and haunt you for the days, weeks, months, even years that should have been ours.

Maybe you’ll be really old by then, your skin hanging in life-stained, elephant folds. I hope so. I hope you will have lived a good, long life. I’ll remember you as you were, with all your hair and dark fur on your body; you were solid in flesh and in values. But I will still love you denuded of hair and body fur, less tethered to flesh and values, closer perhaps to what I am. I’ll perch on your lap with my arms around your neck and lean in close to kiss you. Will you remember then? You may have to feel your way back to the memory past my icy cold lips, past whatever mangling may have occurred on the way to my ghostly state. I’ll slide a cold hand under your shirt and lay my head on your shoulder and remind you.

We’ll hang a white sheet over the wall in your bedroom, the one that faces your marital bed, with the photo of your wedding, and your son’s birth, his wedding, the births of your grandchildren. We’ll set up the old-school projector to whir and clank and rattle some more of your memories loose. We’ll watch ‘Ghost’ and ‘Ghostbusters’, and ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’. After, I’ll wear a bowler hat and dance for you.

If your wife comes in, I’ll drape the sheet around myself and make woo-woo noises to scare her off.

Are you glad you chose her over me? Were you happy together?

I may have made you happy too.

I’ll lure you out after dark when the family is sleeping. We’ll find a bar that plays the hits of the British New Wave and serves cheap vodka, the kind that burns like the devil’s own nectar going down and coming back up. At three am we’ll stumble out, sweating and laughing and find a tattoo parlor where we’ll split the line “love is the longing for the half of ourselves we have lost”. In the morning, the family will quiz you about what half of yourself you have lost but you’ll just shake your head and wink at the empty space they see where you see me.

Let me haunt you and I will be your love. I will come to you in quiet moments. We will be gentle together this time, I promise. I will kiss you and whisper in your ear and you will tell me all the silly things you feel and think that haunt you now because they held you back from loving me all those years ago.

With my love, for *eternity.

*or perhaps a trial period to start

---

Kerry Anderson is a writer living and working in South Africa and Singapore. She is usually unsettled and often confused which she treats with (videos of) elephants, cats, and Yazoo. She has had her work published in The Masters Review, Surely Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Writers.com, among others. Find more on her website.

Now Live: This Week’s ‘Daily Steal Deals’
From no-reply@content.gnosmart.com
To aoife@gyohmail.com
Date 12 Dec 2019, 23:52

Is your life stuck in the bore of the case that holds your body? Does misery stick to you like a stubborn leech sipping off you? Tonight, the clouds cover the lights freshly harvested on a full moon night. The coldness places its cunning fingers, and pulls the threads of hair on your skin. But the bus you are riding has a perfect cushion to gear up for the night, and the heating pad you bought last month via a lightning deal must just be the cherry on top for a comfortable journey. The plug socket is right next to you, and as the gel inside retains warmth for two hours, you just need to plug and unplug for five minutes every second hour. That’s not much of a bother! But still you think your life has been so messy, no momentary warmth rekindles your desire in enduring that bleak life. You are 34, working as a cashier in a bookstore in a dusty street of a town that you have detested all your life but never had a chance to get out. A location which doesn’t inspire a tiny bit of adoring the feel of books that you so love. You despise your alcoholic widow mother with a weak liver. You don’t have enough money to sustain the both of you. Didn’t the kitchen pipe leak and flood the room the last week? If you had only kept an eye for the deals for a better house on yesapartment.com, you would have not seen this day. You have dreamt your part, but now you clearly foresee a husband not a bit attractive or even well-off. Someone who would have too many annoying habits. Someone who would throw in rice and left-over veggies from the fridge every night, and feed your poorly behaved kids an uninviting meal. At night, you’ll fight to sleep. Now, you are probably scoffing and looking at the subject of the email. So, here’s the deal! You see, the woman on the other end of the street, cradled with enough warm clothes as though she is being held in the arms of the fabric. I know you have been watching her since the minute the bus halted. She is holding a torch, as a matter of fact a wide one, and from its mouth agape billows the white light to whichever direction the woman points it at. She holds it low, but like a gun aiming at the street and rocking it for every vehicle that rushes in. The torch gives sight to the people wary to cross the street on this dark night. The streetlights are dim and not enough, and the rampant cars and buses and lorries whooshes in the madness of the falling night. She is 54, and has been doing this every night for 15 years. The street is accident prone, and you must know that she has saved many a life during these years. Within the next 10 minutes, a lorry carrying logs driven by a drunk driver will swoop its way to your bus. You can, however, change the course and barter all the lives on the bus with that woman’s. As we said, she has saved many a life. This deal comes with a 70% off for a retreat at Menahem Hills, and the rehab treatment cost for your mother at Alpha Cares covered. Chance to grab the offer until midnight! Don’t like life-changing deals delivered to you, unsubscribe.

---

Ruby Singha did her postgraduate studies in literature at Delhi University. Her writings can be found in Goya Journal, The Alipore Post, The Bombay Review, Narrow Road Journal, and Verses magazine.

I sat next to a girl on the bus, thin and blond. She was reading a paperback. “Where are you going?” I asked. She glanced at me. “What?” “I’m going to Albany,” I said. “What’s in Albany?” she said. I laughed. “Not much. My mother died. That’s why I’m going to Albany.” She went back to her book. “That’s why I’m going there,” I said. The bus was passing through countryside, a low ridge of wooded hills on one side, on the other a swampy field with scrub brush, a few bare trees. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, not looking up from the page. “It’s all right,” I said. “She was old. Her time had come.” “No one’s time has come,” she said. She looked at me. Clear, gray blue eyes, like I’d fallen through the sky on a winter’s day. “Who reaches the end?” she said. “What gets finished? There are moments. That’s about it.” “My name’s Chip,” I said. “Jim. James, really.” She turned on her side away from me. I could see her face in the bus window. Her eyes were open looking at my reflection. “Wake me,” she said, “when we get to Albany?” I lost myself in my own thoughts. When I glanced back she was asleep. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing. We pulled into the station, and I could see my father standing there. I wanted to wake her, but I didn’t.

---

Richard Ploetz has published short stories in The Quarterly, Outerbridge, Crazy Quilt, Timbuktu, American Literary Review, Hayden’s Ferry, Passages North, Nonbinary Review, Literary Oracle, Ravens Perch, Front Range Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, Roifaineant Press, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Reverie Journal. His children’s story THE KOOKEN was published by Henry Holt.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

“About ghosts?”

“No, everything about everything.”

“OK, so you’re saying you don’t believe in anything?”

“Kind of, but mostly ghosts.”

“So you like to pick on ghosts?”

“They just never appear.”

“They do to a lot of people.”

“But people who are drunk. Or high. Or a little stupid.”

“My Dad saw a ghost.”

“Well, he was probably drunk.”

“He doesn’t drink.”

“Or high.”

“He doesn’t get high.”

“Well, I’m just saying that I don’t care about ghosts. There’s other things. Like wars.”

“Which turn people into ghosts.”

“Yeah, they would. If ghosts were real, but ghosts are nothing. You know how someone says they’re going to ‘ghost’ you. What’s that mean? It means you’ll never hear from them again. That’s what ghosts are. Just nothingness. They bore me.”

“That’s probably why they don’t appear to you.”

“Why? Ghosts only like to appear to people who get scared?”

“I’ll give an example. I used to work at a haunted house. Years ago. I was a scare-actor. And you’d see the customers coming. We had slots. In the wood. So we could see the group coming before they saw us. And so there would be people who looked really scared, so, of course, I’d scare the crap out of them. Then there’d be other groups who looked like they were having no fun. Like a group of tough guys. And I’d just let them pass. I wouldn’t even pop out. Because I didn’t want to deal with them.”

“So you’re saying ghosts are like that?”

“Kind of.”

“So I should be scared more?”

“Maybe. Why? Do you want to see a ghost?”

“I mean, if they’re real, sure. But they’re not. I think it’s all fake.”

“Yeah, everybody thinks everything’s fake nowadays.”

“I just wish it was the old days. I wish we didn’t have computers or lights or anything tech. I think the world was amazing back then. I think every night was nothing but horror. But I can turn the lights on any time I want now. It feels like, if ghosts are real, they’re just scared of technology.”

“Maybe.”

“I wish there was a hat that said MAKE AMERICA GHOST AGAIN.”

“You Republican?”

“No, I hate both parties. And there’s only two parties. I wish it was the old days when it was like the Federalists and the Democratic-Republican hybrid and the Whig Party. The Whig Party used to dominate. They had like three or four different Presidents that were Whig. And then just disappeared. I wish we could bring the Whig Party back. Back then when everybody was wearing wigs. And all those old Presidents look like ghosts in their photos.”

“You mean paintings?”

“Whatever. Andrew Jackson looks like pure Dracula. Martin Van Buren looks like he was a serial killer. One of those guys looked just like Ichabod Crane. I can’t remember his name. It was one of those Presidents who everybody forgets, but he looked straight out of Sleepy Hollow. I wish we were in the old days when life was full of terror. It’s so boring now. It’s like we do mass shootings because we don’t know how to have simple Frankenstein lives anymore. It’s like everybody’s seen the Saw franchise, so it takes basically torture to get the slightest bit of fear out of us. I’m bored with horror and technology. I wish it was back in the day when you’d never left your hometown in your whole entire life and you, like, believed that trolls actually exist. I’d give anything to be that naïve and gullible.”

“Maybe you should just move to Antarctica. Go somewhere really remote.”

“I think you’re right. I think if you’re in a cabin in the woods you’ll probably start seeing some ghosts. Maybe ghosts are just terrified of cities.”

“I know I am.”

“Word.”

We bump fists. He walks away from me, down the alley. I watch him walk away.

The world’s gloaming.

I squint my eyes. I try to imagine the streetlights as ghosts.

---

Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s listening to El-P’s “Deep Space 9mm.”

“Aaaaaaah!” I yell as Tess flings herself, beaming, onto my mattress, all giggles and smiles, her blond hair brushing my cheeks. “Mama!” She laughs. When Tess laughs, my heart wells up with joy, light and giddy with the love I feel.

When the time comes for her to fly back to the U.S. to begin a new semester at the University of Wisconsin, we drive to Lisbon airport. And after every visit, as she proceeds to passport control, she turns back for one last look, and I glimpse the sadness and regret on her face.

This time, though, the departure is different.

“It is what it is,” Tess says, her suitcase in the hall. We are ready to leave for the airport. Fall semester begins next week.

“What does that even mean?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. I just know it’s nothing good.

Like it or not, and as hard as you may try to avoid it, the past will always catch up with you—an ugly hag clawing at your door, coming to reclaim what you hoped you’d forgotten.

And I remember. Long ago, when we were still a family in Deer Creek Falls:

Tess is in the pool, turquoise waters sparkling amid the dense dark firs. She floats and laughs. The laughter tinkles and skips across the gleaming water like a polished pebble.

We go up to the deck overlooking the pool. I hold ten-year-old Tess in my arms. She smiles directly at the camera. The sun casts a shadow on my face.

This is what I had forgotten. But the old crone carps on mercilessly, dragging the slimy residue of memory behind her. I don’t want to remember. Tess is on my bed, shaking me. “Wake up, wake up!” I hear her words and flounder helplessly, struggling and failing to wake from my self-induced stupor of medications and alcohol.

“That’s why I wrote that story!” She exclaims. On the cusp of darkness I hear her words.

That winter, Tess’s story, the tale of a motherless child, won first prize in the Suffolk county writing contest.

B.A. and M.A. in English and Ph.D. in Slavic Languages and Literatures. Taught at the State University of New York at Stony Brook as an adjunct professor and later moved to The Hague, Netherlands to work as a translator for the UN War Crimes Tribunal. Now living in Portugal.

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Anita Lekic‘s articles are published in Counterpunch and in The Local Germany, and her short stories can be read in The RavensPerch, Streetlight Magazine, The Dark Ink Press, Typishly, Cagibi, The Bangalore Review and Wanderlust. One of the short stories was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.