Short Beasts

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.

---

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.

She picked me up one autumn evening in the Wien Reference Room of Columbia’s Butler Library. The year was 1940. I was beavering away at an essay for which, after a momentary glance at what I’d done (not much), she provided the thesis statement that was eluding me, succinctly formulated, even a little provocative, ready to be placed at the head of my shaky introduction, which she then revised with my pen. I asked her if she’d tutor me and she made me her lover.

“She” was Joan Adams Vollmer, a sophomore at Barnard College and future common-law wife of William S. Burroughs, killed by his .38 caliber during a drunken game of William Tell eleven years later. “I” was a Columbia freshman teetering on the cusp of a world hitherto only imagined while reading naughty pulp novels from my father’s basement stash in leafy Brooklyn Heights.

Joan looked nothing like the ideal of womanhood pictured in my post-adolescent mind’s eye, which I later realized had been assembled from the lingerie sections of store catalogues. Her face was heart-shaped, narrowing to a delicately-clefted chin, though the Benzedrine would later take its toll. Her body was nothing special, by which I mean not Lana Turner special, but, combined with everything else, it was still pretty nice, especially to a kid like me, raised on puritanism and expedience.

“Why me?” I asked later at a diner on Amsterdam Avenue.

“I read your mind. What do you know about the Mayans?”

“Were they, like, ancient Mexicans?”

“Pre-Columbian.”

“Oh?”

“The Mayans were telepathic. At least, their high priests were. If they could do it, why not us?”

“Because we’re not pre-Columbian?”

“Oh, we’re not even pre-med, but why not us?”

Mayan telepathy was only one of her interests, which included Proust, Wilhelm Reich, especially the sex stuff, and the Daily News. Maybe it was just her eyes, but I could never rid myself of the notion that maybe she really was telepathic.

“Are you reading my mind right now?”

“Of course. Maybe he is too,” she said, nodding towards a nearby table.

The he in question was a dandyish young-old sort who, nattily dressed in three-piece suit and tie, hair brilliantined to a fault under a gray fedora, sat facing away from us.

I was at a loss, but decided to play along, as is my wont when confused, “Who’s he?”

“A future development named Bill.”

She had a distinct air of prerogative about her, as if laying claim to whatever happened to fall under her calm, deliberate gaze. Even sitting in that diner on Amsterdam Avenue, nursing my root-beer float and receiving God knows what telepathic signals from this Mayan goddess in a cardigan and scarf, I yearned to be hers.

“Was he at the Butler too?” I asked.

“Of course.”

Then I did something I thought very clever. I got up and walked right past him to the cash register and took some mints. Then I walked back to our table, giving Mr. Bill a quick once over. He was taller than average, slim of build and patrician in his air, if somewhat dead in the eyes. Yet he had the look of a man with a very full inner life, his dead eyes never leaving me as I stomped by like some clodhopper from Campbell’s Corners.

All the while, she was regarding me with droll amusement. Egos being what they are, it was awhile before I could acknowledge that it was for this very quality of ineptitude that she kept me around, like one of those idiotically charming cats who are always misjudging their leaps.

“What’s your take, Mr. Private Eye,” she said as I pulled out my chair with a loud scraping honk and sat down as heavily as a fall-down drunk.

When I said he seemed like a very troubled individual she laughed in my face, but I thought I sensed the merest reaction in him, vibrating about that emphatically averted profile like summer heat on blacktop.

“Now you’ve got him agitated.”

“How would you even know?”

“I just do.”

Which was approximately where we’d begun this conversation, so in the spirit of circularity I said, “Are you reading his mind too?”

“Oh no. He’s an enigma wrapped in a fedora.”

This was strange new country for me. I felt as if I could slip at any moment on my swinging rope bridge and plunge into the raging equatorial river below. Then, out of the goodness of her heart, she said, “Tell me about yourself.”

So I went over the main points. A mostly idyllic upbringing in leafy Brooklyn Heights and the basement cache of naughty pulp novels. My father an upstanding citizen, my mother his wife. I even told her about my glory days in the high-school drama club and my bohemian aspirations.

“I guess you’ll want me to take you through the Village,” she said.

“Would you?”

“Oh sure, but Times Square is where you want to be when you hit rock bottom.”

“Lead me to it.”

She would get this certain expression on her face when she was amused, her cupid’s-bow lips slightly open, her eyes imparting wonder, except it was never clear what she was thinking, just that she was amused. I’ll take it, I thought.

On our way out, she made sure to pay the tab herself and I was just relieved that Dr. Caligari’s Cabinet over there hadn’t sprung for it. Her room-mate, a striking brunette named Edie who dressed like a dock worker, ignored us as we silently passed her in the hallway of a nearby apartment they shared in Morningside Heights. What followed was the culmination of years of manual preparation.

Afterwards, as Joan slept, I stood at the window by her bed, gazing down at the dark street below. And there he was, a future development named Bill, looking up under a streetlamp with an expression of pure kismet.

---

Jim Mulvihill is a Canadian citizen and former academic, with interests ranging from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf—and, of course, the Beats. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada.

Barricade the doors and prepare your materials.

For the head, a clutch of cables stripped down to their raw copper cores carrying shudders of memory. For eyes and ears, a twist of coaxials and a flicker of fiber optics. Zip tie at random to provide an illusion of control. No mouth because you never spoke out even when you thought you might.

Craft fingers from the cheap cigarettes you bought though split peas were cheaper and the soup would have nourished you at least a little.

For lungs, a handful of the split peas you ought to have bought, closed up in a tin. They should rattle.

For the belly, a wad of diary pages. Use gloves, they will be mucky.

For legs, stack the contents of your worst-day bedroom floor, from books up to bottles. Determine that whatever direction they tilt is forward.

For feet, use the boots, the ones that could coax a tango from a tilt.

For the heart, an envelope to enclose the shadows you loved. Their subjects were only distractions.

Head-cable your monster into a shape.

Use a fine tip paint brush to apply the porcelain slip, taking care to coat each ridge and angle. Do not be tempted to use a larger brush to smooth over surfaces or round out corners.

Slide your monster into the kiln and fire at extreme heat. You will know she is ready by the screaming.

Allow the porcelain to cool.

Apply the glaze and make your monster a cup of tea while she dries off. This will add an extra layer of polish. Persuade your monster back into the kiln for the glaze to settle.

Unbarricade the doors and bid your half-glazed monster farewell. Watch her lumbering off and remind yourself that she is made for experience and not for longevity.

Use a broom to sweep out the kiln. Hesitate before you shake the porcelain ash off the bristles, standing on the back doorstep. Realize as the breeze passes through and steals them that the porcelain monster is only the shape and not the thing itself.

Make yourself a fresh cup of tea, light one of those cheap cigarettes. Ask yourself where are you now?

---

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.

I worry about Charlie. Every morning, he complains about the drone rush hour noise. And he’s been getting worse since the twins left us empty nesters.

“Isn’t it better than hearing the whirring all day?” I say. “We have twenty hours of quiet now. We can hear the birds again.”

“Who needs all this crap?” Charlie presses his palms into his ears. “Breakfast delivered? Lattes? Newspapers! Who even reads the newspaper anymore?” He’s worse during the 5-7 slot for evening deliveries.

Not sure why I answer. It never helps. “People like to hold something in their hands, I guess.”

“What’s next? Milk bottles? Ice like in our great grandparents’ day?”

Our phones ping like a string of firecrackers. “They have it,” I say. “Borden’s® milk.” A parachute delivery lands outside the window. “They’ve sent a free sample. Must use that NewGlass®, so it doesn’t break.”

“More like Lizzy Borden” Charlie shivers, “It’s all so creepy.” His phone pings. “Lizzie Borden® milk! Jesus!”

The drones certainly are spooky–buzzing 40 feet over the road in tight formations. Privacy laws forbid flying over yards except for drop-off and pick up, but they look and hum like a river of grey bees, 80% quieter per the new regs, but at a higher pitch that stings Charlie’s ears. It isn’t just the drones. Our new EvenSmarter® Home Help and Security Program is creeping him out too. It’s free but our info goes straight to targeted ads and instant sample deliveries.

“You know they could turn on us.” Charlie presses his face into the window. “Some hacker could program them to kill us all.”

By the evening rush, Charlie can’t eat, can’t sit. He’s muttering, coming over to whisper in my ear so the house can’t hear.

“Put the headphones on,” I say. “Set for white noise.” I throw an arm around his waist. I coo in his ear. “Take a breath. Let it go.” I nestle the headphones onto his head. Charlie can’t stop pacing, so I do what he did for me when the drone deliveries first began years ago. I put my hand on his chest. “There, there.” His heart is going a crazy. Butta thump, butta thump, butta thump.

“Easy,” I say, like calming a spooked horse. Charlie had paced with me back then until I found the right medication, and mastered the art of letting it all just pass right through me. We were so happy then. But now he paces faster and faster. “Maybe it’s time to try my med–”

Charlie bolts for the door. I stand, mouth open, holding his headphones. Did he hand them to me? Out the window I can see him throwing gravel at the drones–looking like some cartoon kid with a stash of ammo at his feet. There should be a slingshot in his back pocket. He rifles stones at the drones which wobble comically as the rocks ricochet off. The drones dip or bang into neighbors before righting themselves. They’re easy pickings flying in such a dense river–like a flock of grackles but packed tighter. Rising over telephone poles. Dipping around branches.

I laugh until three safety drones triangulate over Charlie and hit him with darts. His arms drop to his side, his head sags, his knees buckle, he sits back and then tips sideways onto the lawn.

My phone rings as I run out the door. “Mrs. Crumple?” the voice says when I answer. “This is Sergeant Able Nelson.” One of the drones hovers at eye level a few yards in front of me. I stare at the red flashing light. “Your husband is fine. He’ll wake in two hours. He’s been sedated as per the Bigger Better Drone Safety and Privacy Act of 2026. Charges have been filed and dismissed since it’s his first offense. All the paperwork’s downloaded onto his phone. But you need to get him help. This can’t happen again. I’ve suspended messages on your phone, but when I hang up, it’ll light up with offers for legal representation, surgery, counseling, who knows what. Our experience–”

I cut him off. “Are you a person?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Yes,” he says and pauses just long enough to be awkward, to suggest he’d gone off script.

“In our experience,” he continues, “music helps, particularly classical and reggae. But ChíllaQuin® is most effective. It will allow your husband to let it go and there are virtually no side effects.”

“I’m familiar with ChíllaQuin®,” I say.

“I know, Mrs. Crumple.” He pauses again. “You can hide it in his coffee or eggs, but it’s better if he takes it willingly.”

I slip the headphones over Charlie’s ears as Sergeant Nelson lists all the legal disclaimers. I roll Charlie onto his back, take off my sweater and put it under his head. His smile is goofy. Medicated.

“Any questions?” Nelson says.

I stare at the drone like I expect its expression to change.

“This will all work out fine,” Nelson says. “Just a blip. In our experience.”

“Thank you,” I say and the three drones zip up and dive back into the buzzing river.

I click on the link to update Charlie’s headphones to reggae, turn off my phone, lie down and put my head on Charlie’s chest. I listen to the slow Thump, thump, thump of his heart. “You’ve got to give it up,” I say, almost singing. Thump, thump, thump. “Give it up,” I sing again in a whisper. Thump, thump, thump. “Oh, Charlie, give it up.”

From a drone’s-eye view, we probably look like fallen soldiers left behind by a defeated army. As the sun settles low on the horizon, the smell of dirt and grass fill the air. Our breathing syncs. Slow and steady.

---

Jack Powers is the author of two poetry collections: Everybody’s Vaguely Familiar (2018) and Still Love (2023). His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Salamander and The Cortland Review. His fiction has appeared in Inkwell, Flash Fiction Magazine and Flash Point Science.

She does not know he is there, sitting behind her, close enough to smell her perfume; out of sight, out of mind, as if still imprisoned in the dank 6 x 8 ft shit hole she sent him to eleven years ago.

This newfound café with its restored Palladian windows, factory height ceiling, and industrial hardwood plank flooring, has become her safe space; her therapist had suggested incremental steps, and this one is working. Quiet and sparsely populated when she arrives. Mellow light streaming in, illuminating the grand Venetian plaster wall opposite in a Vermeer lead-tin-yellow glow. It all coheres. By mid-afternoon, when the lunch crowd has gone back to work, she focuses on her writing, losing herself in world-building. Only the soft hissing of the espresso machine, and wafts of aromatic fresh coffee grounds filter through.

No one has told her he has been released. On a technicality. She has not received the requisite status update. This was never supposed to happen. She has spent the past decade putting her life back together. Shattered, broken fragments, some lost forever, painstakingly reassembled —Kintsugi, embracing her flaws and imperfections, working towards turning adversity into something that is beautiful and resilient. The process, slow.

She feels a sting, Nambu tea-kettle hot, boring a hole through the back of her head. Turns, but only slightly, not wanting to engage, not wanting to break solo katsu. He’s rail-thin, a man in an overcoat, untouched glass of water and black coffee on the bistro table in front of him, flinching as she twists in his direction. He brandishes an anaemic tattoo, an eight-legged spider crawling up his neck onto his cheek, impaling his forehead. Reminds her of the Japanese face mask infused with Morocco Ghassoul clay and hinoki she wears at night, constricting as it dries. She panics, feels claustrophobic, and quickly washes it off. Trapped, like when her mouth was garrotted with that thick oily rag, hands and feet hog tied, held hostage for days in that dank rat-infested basement. And what he did to her. She shock-twists in a searing gasp, a sharp inwards harmonica breath, squeezes her eyes and lips tight: those images, sensations, sounds, effectively compartmentalized.

Refocusing in her notebook, she considers this man’s features. Unique and unsettling. She wonders what his story is. Jots down a description, embellishing only a little. Markings, attire, inertia, to weave into the next chapter. Adds a chin dimple to soften that hardened maw, that claw up the neck. He’ll be with her, growing in stature, for the next two years. The publisher will later say he seems so real, as if she’s been carrying him around all her life.

---

Karen Schauber’s flash fiction appears in over 100 international journals, magazines, and anthologies with nominations for Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Top 50. She is Editor of the award-winning flash fiction anthology The Group of Seven Reimagined: Contemporary Stories Inspired by Historic Canadian Paintings (Heritage House, 2019). She curates Vancouver Flash Fiction, and in her spare time is a seasoned family therapist. See more at her site. @KarenSchauber

A paper silhouette fades into the light.

You move forward, carefully putting each step in front of the previous one. On the ground there are dirty papers lying around, pieces of plastic, and urine stains from yesterday’s pissers. The light from a clothing store illuminates a window, a little further away, where rigid mannequins set up an absurd vigil, in order to display some sportswear there. Finally, a blind wall blocks the alley that you have just taken. So you turn around, and walk back your steps leaving this dead end littered with rubbish.

Once on the avenue, you actually find yourself stuck in a compact crowd of people, made out of a mixture of passersby, tramps, and seated folks busy sipping their drinks at café terraces. You walk by a few dowdy couples, which seem to be just out there in order to set up some sort of a competition, about who will turn out to be the most ridiculous of the bunch, in the end. This to such an extent that it could almost turn out to be a deadly game for them, as we like to say it in French. You try to get out of all this mess by taking shelter in a park, not far away, where you also unfortunately find a multitude of playing children. They’re soon enough all around you as, out of sheer excitement, they keep running up and down, blowing clouds of dust into the air with their feet. While doing so, they usually utter high-pitched little screams that make you think of the ones of some sort of tiny eunuchs, or strange hairless dwarves. Sometimes they start off chasing unfortunate pigeons for no apparent reason, as if to test their power over their surroundings. Some of them tearing off leaves or branches from the trees too, with their little white hands, as they pass by them, holding them up a bit like trophies, to be discarded pretty soon. You can easily spot their parents slowly walking at a stately pace not too far behind, watching their offspring with a loving and an utterly stupid gaze. Many being dressed casually on this bank holiday, startlingly look like the mannequins in the store window seen by you earlier on in a street. Doing so, they also speak about trivial stuff, conversations usually revolving around all sorts of small things taken from their everyday life. After forty or beyond, they are usually showing off beer bellies and puffy faces, vaguely distorted, and perhaps a little bit like your own. You say to yourself that the majority of the parents of these kids do undoubtedly display quite an ugly scene here, and that one should be allowed to put a veil over their heads in order to hide them. The children, it must be said, are not all of them so good looking too, but at least they do not have the beer bellies sticking out from under their t-shirts, nor flabby flesh hanging down from their chins. A few graceful birds, geese, ducks or moorhens, keep drifting on the small lake lined with varied trees, located just at the center of the park. Finally, a breeze picks up and starts swinging the highest branches of the trees. There are now some gray clouds coming by the horizon, and slowly accumulating over the roofs. It will probably rain soon. You’re not alone wandering out there either, as your woman is walking along with you, kissing you too, from time to time.

But, despite all her love, a silence, or a void, strangely seems to surround all things out here, isolating them from one another. But it is you, above all, you alone, in this teeming park, who is isolated from all the others with these kinds of thoughts, in the end.

---

Ivan de Monbrison is affected by strong psychic disorders that inspire him to live anything but a normal life. Writing is a saving grace, a window out of darkness through which he can see blue sky. His writing often reflects the never-ending chaos within him, but contrary to this chaos, the paper and the pen give him the opportunity to materialize this in a concrete and visible form. His works have been published in MudRoom, The Gravity of the Thing, and Roanoke Review. He has published several poetry collections and novels: Les Maldormants (2014), L’Heure Impure (2016), Orgasmes et Fantaisies (2016), Nanaqui ou les Tribulations d’un poète (2017), A Tale of the Insane: Inside The Fire (2018), La Cicatrice Nue (2020), and more.

We were hitchhiking to Montana from Rhode Island, and after a few short rides with backwoods psycho-types, Cal and I got lucky. We got picked up by a guy in a big trailer truck who was going all the way to Chicago. His name was Sylvester, and he looked kind of like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. He was a former Black Panther. At least that’s what he told us. And he had Polaroid photographs of his various “ladies” from around the country all taped to the dashboard. They were all naked in the photos. Sylvester said the pictures kept him awake and focused while he drove. And he smoked a good deal of the pot we had brought along with us. He chain-smoked joints the way my Aunt Sophie smoked Winstons. Every half hour or so Sylvester would just smile and say, “Whyn’t you twist up another one of those fatties for us.” But, he was a good storyteller, and the miles flew by.

Then, about three or four in the morning, Sylvester got too tired to keep driving, and so he pulled over for a few hours sleep in a truck stop somewhere near Toledo. Right before he fell asleep, he told Cal to make sure to wake him up by seven o’clock, because he needed to have his load in Chicago before noon.

So, at seven Cal tried to wake Sylvester up, like he was a camp counselor or something. “O.K. Yo, Sylvester. It’s seven o’clock. Time to wake up. Time to rise and shine.” Sylvester didn’t budge. So Cal lightly poked him on the arm. “O.K. Up an’ attem’, Sylvester.” Sylvester didn’t move. Cal looked at me and said, “Shit.” Then he got really loud and gave Sylvester a rough shove. “C’mon, let’s go, Sylvester! Get up!”

Very suddenly Sylvester sprang up out of his bed behind the seats in the cab; he was holding a 44 magnum very close to Cal’s face, and he snarled, “Doncha touch me, mutha fucka.”

Cal jumped back against the truck door and started to stammer: “You got it. No more touching. None. None at all. Ever. You just go right back to sleep, Sylvester, and dream about not killing hitchhikers. Night night.”

Sylvester muttered something to the effect of: “What de fuck aw yo sumbitch ain’t touch’n shit ki us muh-fuck,” and Cal hopped out of the truck and ran into the truckstop—I think he had to change his underwear.

---

Paul Rogalus teaches English at Plymouth State University. His full-length play Crawling From the Wreckage was produced in New York City by the American Theatre of Actors, and his one act plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, and Boston. His short screenplay, “Sid and Walt,” won screenwriting contests at the Wildsound Film Festival in Toronto and at the PictureStart Film Festival in New York City. A book of his microfiction entitled animals was published in 2022 by Human Error Publishing.

She felt a promising sensation reach for her core and opened her dark eyes with soft anticipation. She found his blue eyes not gazing into hers but into the upper corner of the room, up over her left shoulder, with a look of something like boredom mixed with purposeful indifference. All sensation fled. Later, alone, she sometimes wondered if it would have been better to simply have kept her eyes closed.

---

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers and a novel, Soleil Madera.

Her English teacher called her Mousy, perhaps because she often wore a wooden mouse pin with red rhinestone eyes and a thin leather strip for a tail. She didn’t mind. The pin had been her mother’s idea of adorable. There was a lot of confusion in those days. Roman soldiers didn’t particularly float her boat, for instance. All the same, she wrote a story about two of them once, and to her enormous surprise, her teacher, a former Jesuit priest, now happily married to a former nun and teaching at her Lutheran all-girls school, was so impressed with her story, he asked if he could have it. She was flattered and said of course and handed over her exercise book, almost empty otherwise. Since she wasn’t interested in Roman soldiers in the first place and soon couldn’t remember what she had written, she was hardly going to miss the story. Not long afterwards, the school decided to let the teacher go. Some of his views were considered too radical for an all-girls school. This in contrast to one of the Latin teachers who was rumored to have an affair with either another teacher or one of the older students; he got away with a stern warning.

Meanwhile what did fiercely interest her were boys and her feelings about one or the other. There was, for example, a gorgeous blond boy who on warm late summer afternoons sat at a street corner opposite the public library and played his guitar, surrounded by friends and whoever else wanted to listen. Sometimes he sang. His long blond hair fell into his face as he bent over his guitar, and she was lost. She liked the sight of him almost more than the music, though he played songs she knew and liked. She couldn’t possibly go up to him and tell him how beautiful he was and how much she would like to kiss him. It just wasn’t done. One day, though, she talked to one of his friends in the periphery of the circle around him, and, to her surprise, got not only the boy’s name but also his phone number, which she carried around for two weeks before calling him from a yellow public payphone booth. He wasn’t at home, however, and she only got to talk to his father for a few minutes. His father was friendly but somewhat condescending and not very helpful, didn’t suggest a call back time or ask for a call back number. She never tried calling again. She walked by the corner opposite the library many more times just in case. After all, there were always books to borrow and return. But it was chillier now, and it rained often, and nobody was ever there again. Perhaps she had scared the beautiful guitar player away? It was difficult to tell.

When it didn’t rain, she now took solitary walks around City Lake, heard frogs a few times, looked at the last of the hardy flowers that remained, and shuffled through the fallen leaves on the ground. When it did rain, she stayed home and wrote about the boy. She didn’t give his name and didn’t make one up for him either. She simply called him the blond boy and wrote how his image drew her to the lake, luring her with laughter and a few songs, and so she followed. Around and around they went, swaying and gliding to some magical music no one else could hear. How she longed for him in those musings. The rest of the world could only hear the traffic of the city, now and again a siren, the yapping of dogs, bird calls, and squirrels rustling in the fallen leaves, and once in a while a shrill whistle, probably summoning some dog.

By now she had a new English teacher, and when she showed him the story which still made her skin prickle when she read it to herself, he looked into her eyes briefly, then looked away. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. She thanked him and took her exercise book back, preparing to wonder for the rest of her days if it would have been better had she once more written about two Roman soldiers. Even had she wanted to, though, she couldn’t remember a word of what she had written about them before. After all, they hadn’t interested her in the least.

---

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers and a novel, Soleil Madera.

Leaving school at fifteen was a mistake that I couldn’t undo. The teachers had predicted I’d fail every subject I was set to take and my theory was it was better to drop-out early than waste the next few months of my life working towards failure.

I spent the following few months in bed watching bad TV shows and lounging around in my pajamas well into the afternoon. It was a perfect time and knowing that I’d somehow managed to dodge hour after hour of miserably dull school classes in exchange for these heavenly duvet days felt like I’d easily made the best decision of my life.

It came to a tragic end in July. Around two days after my sixteenth birthday when my Mum came home after work and told me to sit down, she said, ‘You can go back to school or you can get a job,’ I slumped there in dull despair while she continued, ‘what you can’t do is lay around here playing on the computer all day.’

When she finished her speech, I knew I was done for. My days of blissful idling by the computer or in front of the TV were over.

I knew the day was coming, but I’d done such a good job of putting it out of mind that the whole thing left me feeling like I’d just been sent to the trenches and there was nothing I could do to avoid the horrible fate set before me.

The following day I found myself at the job center and they soon let me know how useless I would be in the job market. ‘For your skills,’ the employment officer told me, ‘it will be factories, cleaning, fast-food, or retail.’

I used the scattergun approach to apply for jobs. I applied for everything and anything: hotels, factories, warehouses, restaurants, clothes shops, bakeries, and after weeks of sending off about one hundred CV’s and application forms, the only one to call back and ask me for an interview was the local fast-food restaurant.

One week later and after a group interview with the local misfits – a rotund teen with skin issues who couldn’t make eye contact with anyone; a man in his forties with a loud verbal tic and a habit of running his hands over his head every time he was asked to speak; and lastly, a man of about twenty-five with lank brown hair dangling over his face who had donned a lovely Matrix t-shirt – I found myself against all intentions and expectations with my first job.

Next week and after one induction I was in a grey uniform and behind the grill listening to a nineteen year old explain to me the art of frying hamburger patties.

In the space of a few weeks, I’d lost it all.

I’d gone from sleep-ins where I could hide under the duvet for as long as I wanted to this hellish fast tempo kitchen with overly amped up teenagers barking orders at me on how to make a hamburger properly.

I thought to myself as the sweat dripped beneath my cap that someone ought to warn a guy not to quit school at fifteen in order to avoid school, otherwise they’re going to end up like me—the hamburger guy.

So that’s how it went frying hamburgers for a year in some sweat soaked kitchen. Day after day with little hope before me. I spent a long time dreaming of a better life and cursing my own life until I finally did something about it.

It didn’t happen in a glamorous way. I really just snapped one day when I was cleaning out the grease riddled cooking utensils. I ran out when nobody was paying attention, threw away my cap, charged through the fire escape, and cycled off into the distance without a single look back.

I was seventeen and with a few thousand in savings, I finally had some hope in me.

---

Leigh Doughty is a writer and a language tutor from Lincoln, UK. His previous work can be found in the VNexpress, Subliminal Surgery, and the Meridian. X: @gaspsinflaubert

We’re getting rid of my grandparents’ cat, Julius. And when I say we, read my girlfriend, Sarah. After grandpa died, the family entrusted Julius to me, but his favorite game deals with biting the toes of anyone passing by. Sarah’s his usual target because her signature sandals leave her exposed, but he’s tagged my bare feet, too.

“We can’t have people over,” Sarah says. News flash, we never had people over before the cat. Yet, her argument wins, and now, the animal rescue center appears on a hill behind a steel mill. The road isn’t even fully paved. The car’s tires bounce over every hole in the gravel path that circles up to the concrete pad in front of the building with a worn awning and tinted double doors.

The cat crawls around the fabric crate my grandparents bought for him. His paws press through the bottom and into my lap as the whole car shakes, and I lift the container so that his claws don’t pick at my skin. My grandparents used to always joke that really the cat picked them. It just showed up on their back door step, and they got to take care of it. “At the back door. Kind of like how we first met you,” grandma once said to me.

A picture of me and the cat sat on their mantle and now sits on my desk. In it, I’m around twelve, and turned to face away from the camera so that Julius stared directly at it. His head snuggled next to mine with his paws wrapped around both sides of my neck in a hug.

In the parking lot, Julius finds a hole in the fabric and reaches a paw out to swipe at Sarah. “See what I mean,” she says. This has always been their relationship. The first time Julius bit Sarah she ran to the bathroom before I could do anything.

“Look at the blood,” she said.

She was in the bathroom, so I really couldn’t see it. When she got out, it didn’t look like much, just two tiny red marks.

Inside animal rescue, behind the front desk, two workers help a family adopt a cat. Well, one helps two parents and a little girl while the other worker’s there for moral support. The cat’s maybe seven months old unlike Julius who’s nine years at least. Sarah begins explaining our situation.

When done, moral support grabs the paperwork that needs to be filled out.

I ask, “How often do you adopt?”

Moral support says, “We get a number of people.”

My head bounces in agreement like I knew this answer already. I probably look like some fool giving up the last vestige of his grandparents, or more likely, I look like anyone else choosing adoption for their pet. I shouldn’t care. These people don’t know my backstory. They don’t know the fact that every other family member took something from the house that just sold yesterday.

Julius pokes his nose up through the hole where the zipper doesn’t fully close at the top stop. He smells the adopted cat. His nostrils flare as he gets a good whiff of the other. The cat’s a mutt like Julius, but I’d never think of Julius that way. Well, maybe Julius’s coat was that dark when he was younger.

“How long before you take them to the back?” There’s an implication with the word “back” that rubs against my subconscious. I begin to tear up and hope that it’s at least not noticeable.

Moral support’s eyes dart back down to the keyboard as she furiously types Julius’s information into the computer. “Two weeks. We give them two weeks in the pass before moving them to the back. That way, everyone gets a chance.”

Sarah says, “He’ll be fine.”

I want to scream. Two weeks is nothing, but Sarah doesn’t get it. How could she? She wasn’t there when he’d curl up in my lap after getting into trouble for playing just down the street but out after sunset with my friends, Hyram and Daniel. Or, the time I wrecked grandmother’s car, and the only thing to touch me after was his nose against my bruises. She’s never felt the way his purr vibrates through your body or been aware of the fact he wasn’t that way with just everyone. It had to be earned.

I ask, “Can I talk to you outside?”

It isn’t a conversation. Well, it is if I begin but only get to ask a simple question before Sarah butts in to remind me of how she’s right. I don’t go back inside the shelter.

Well, I do go back after two weeks, and apparently, Sarah was right. The cat’s too cranky. No one adopted him, wanted him. Animal rescue charges me one hundred twenty dollars to get him back, which isn’t a big deal. In some ways, it cost me less, and more, to get rid of Sarah, and I can only hope she’s found someone without any pets.

---

Frederick Charles Melancon lives in Mississippi with his wife, daughter, and cat, Jiji. More of his work can be found on what is now formerly Twitter @fcmwrite.

We were halfway between McMinnville and Lincoln City when the smell of shit overwhelmed us. It was overwhelming, this smell of shit, when the windows were up more than when they were down. The smell was potent enough to cover twenty years of stale cigarette smoke in the car. It was strong enough to cover the smell that had been affecting us negatively, the smell coming from the trunk.

“Fertilizer,” I said. “I guess.”

He fussed with the radio’s dial. We picked up a preacher’s sermon and then a talk radio station.

“I don’t think I’ve listened to AM radio even once in my life,” I said.

“It’s an old car,” Bobby said.

“We can walk back from Newport,” I said. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Four, five days,” Bobby said. He sighed. “I don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t really want to either,” I said. It was true, I didn’t even want to walk from my apartment on 23rd Ave to the bar on 17th when Bobby called. It’s not that I’m lazy, it was just that it was raining when he called.

“You still see Deborah?” Bobby asked.

“Rebekah,” I said.

“Oh, sorry,” he said “They’re both Biblical names.”

“She moved back to Vermont.”

“No shit,” he said. “So, you’re not seeing her anymore?”

“She comes from a really pretty place outside of Montpelier,” I said. “She didn’t ask me to move back with her, but I would have.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Bobby said.

“Jesus,” I said. We’d just taken a large curve and the massive field sprinkler just came into view. “Look at that,” I said.

“Fuck,” Bobby said. He pulled the old car to the side of the road. “A fucking poop sprinkler,” he said.

“It’s the way they fertilize, I guess,” I said.

“Never seen anything like it,” he said.

We stared, dumbfound, at the scene, the poop sprinkler, the brown liquid coming from it and the field around it. A few cars passed us. Our engine idled, but on the whole, it was quiet enough that the sound of the AM radio static mixed with the low frequency words was still audible.

“Let’s leave the body here,” I said.

“Naw,” he said. “What about the car?”

“It smells so bad here, and hell, there’s probably enough worms and bugs and bacteria and shit decomposing this thing will be real quick.”

“What about the car?” he asked again.

“Fuck it. Let’s dump it in the woods.”

“Let’s stick to the plan,” he said.

It had been my desire to help Bobby hide a body. It really had been. But that was before, before when I still thought it would be glamorous rather than a drag, the drag it really was.

“Vermont?” he asked, as he pulled the car slowly back on the road.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll miss her.”

“I had no idea she came from Vermont, she struck me as the kind of person who came from a warm place. A desert maybe, like Arizona.”

“I miss how dirty she was, you know?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Filthy. Kinky. She was kind of scary, but I liked it.”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t tell me more.”

“You’re right Bobby,” I said.

We ate chowder in an Irish Pub in Nye Beach. We spoke in low whispers and for no real reason because we really weren’t talking about anything.

In Medford, Bobby worked in a movie theater. And as interesting as that may seem, he said it was a boring job. My list of boring jobs was even longer, and they were all so boring that I thought the popping of popcorn and the tearing of tickets sounded pretty good.

“So,” he said once we left the pub. “We drive to the other side of town, park the car.”

“Right,” I said. I’d heard all this before. “It gets dark near 3:00,” I added.

“Right,” he said. “And the waves of the tsunami ought to hit the coast sometime in the early evening.”

“And we push the car.”

“Right,” he said.

“Let’s stop talking about it,” I said. “Let’s just do this.”

We waited in a biker’s bar in Newport drinking yellow beers and tossing darts. There wouldn’t be a bus back to Portland until morning, 7:30 and the bar, should it stay open to 2:30 would leave us outside and on the streets for five, wet, dark hours.

“Do you read books?” Bobby asked.

“No, not really,” I said. “Why’d you ask?”

“I read books once.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was once in Greece. I read every day.”

“Poetic,” I said. “You only read in Greece?”

“I guess it’s only because I had no one to talk to.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. He rolled a dart around in his fingers. “I’m thinking about picking up reading again.”

---

After leaving his job at the sweatshop manufacturing decorative pillows, Anthony ILacqua became an out of print author of two books you’ve probably never read. He co-founded Umbrella Factory Magazine in 2009 and has remained the editor in chief since. His short fiction has most recently appeared in Stimulus Respond, Unlikely Stories and Lumiere. Meet him here: http://anthonyilacqua.blogspot.com

It’s your fault we can’t grow old together.

I heard you on the radio. If only it had been a production from the golden age! I could have known better. You would have been dead and buried before I heard you.

Damn this radio play renaissance that brought you into my living room. It isn’t fair. You sounded young and beautiful.

You are beautiful, you know. People probably used to tell you that more often. I imagine now you get called distinguished. Or statuesque, maybe.

You’ve had four husbands but I don’t think you’re fickle. All of your marriages lasted years and years and here I am, barely old enough to vote.

It isn’t all your fault, but can’t you see why I felt tricked? You sound a quarter of your age!

I don’t know what I’d have done if you were as young as the character you played in that production. Propose, I suppose. Though it probably wouldn’t have worked.

Once I found your picture online and realized I had been deceived I wavered. I sat alone imagining everything.

Sending a letter just feels right. I want to show you that my intentions are as pure as these sheets I’m filling. Disregard any smudges on the envelope.

I don’t imagine you responding. Not at first. But there will be more letters. They’ll be honest and kind. Like me. I really don’t have a dishonest bone in my body, that’s why I’m sharing all of this with you.

I want to fill your mailbox with letters and your tables with bouquets.

If you wrote back to tell me it’s nice to meet a devoted fan I would answer; “I am devoted to you, minor fame notwithstanding.”

If I had heard your voice anywhere, coming from a bag lady, a head on the television, a nurse calling my name in a waiting room, I would have been smitten.

We could get close somehow. But nothing unseemly. Not us. I want this to last. I bet everyone wanted to be your first husband. I’m content being runner up. What the hell? You could have as many husbands as you like. You have already.

I’ll be your last husband then, I’ve decided. Should I be ashamed of wanting that? I’m not. But you could correct me. You could tell me how to feel and that’s how it would be.

Your voice has a power that I can’t begin to describe. I can only be moved by it.

I would get into your life before we married, before we met. Not in a sordid way, you understand. Your other husbands did it. I checked.

One met you on set, one was playing tennis, one you saw at a convention, one started as just a friend. There’s hope.

You don’t do conventions these days, I checked. If you still play tennis I couldn’t find out where. Unfortunately we don’t have any friends in common.

Maybe you need a gardener? Or a delivery man who brings your groceries? That sounds better. I overnourish most things I try to grow. You probably had grocery deliveries when you were young because you were so busy. You could have them again.

It would be sweet, I promise. I could leave little notes with the deliveries. You might recognize my handwriting. I hope you wouldn’t at first.

What I’d want is a second rapport. You talking to me sweetly as a simple delivery driver. Just a “please” here, a “thank you” there. If I heard your voice in person my heart would soar.

Then I would stop the letters. The fan mail, you understand. You would notice the absence.

Maybe you would miss them and confide in your delivery man. I wouldn’t act like I knew, but I would. Then instead of notes telling you, “Have a great day!” or “You’re a wonderful customer!” there would be a bouquet with the next delivery.

You would realize you had never told your humble delivery man what types of flowers your biggest fan sent. Then out I could pop, grinning.

That’s as far as the dream goes, for now. I can picture us singing together sometimes, but I’m not sure you can. That sultry voice might only be good for talk. Maybe whispers, if I’m lucky.

I pray this letter finds you well. Maybe I’ve put a bit too much in. I can always rectify that with the next one. I have bouquets picked out. I read that you were embracing a plant based diet now. For longevity. Maybe you’re too old for me or I’m too young for you, but there’s no harm in telling me what kind of non-dairy milk you prefer, is there? I won’t tell anyone who could abuse the information. I’ve pieced together a good approximation of your grocery list, but nowhere was I able to find your preferred type of milk.

I look forward to meeting you.

I am yours, for all the time you have left in the world.

---

Max Moon is an emerging writer who currently lives and writes in Seattle, Washington. He has been told he almost died after being born early in 1993 and has been late to everything since, just to play it safe.

I think back to falling out that window and sneaking across the open field. Maybe I fell, maybe he did. His golden retriever followed us barking too loudly and we shushed him, as we lit our way with our small red flashlight and parted tall yellow grass which seemed above our heads, but I’m sure was not.

After parting the seas, we turned out the light, and took off our pajamas, left only in our under-clothes, so recently stripped of Batman and Wonder Woman emblems. The dark was protective, but still we ran and jumped into the obscurity of the lake. It seemed a lake then, now it seems like a pond, expanding or retracting by the rhythm of summer showers. But we whispered Marco Polo, and tried not to laugh. The dog waded next to us, knowing that we were naïve and alone.

There were lights shining. At first we thought they were fireflies, out past their curfew, but then a flame appeared on the water. It did not evaporate, but magnified, and he placed his finger over my lips to request silence. His arm brushed against my stomach underwater, and I tried not to giggle, not to give away our position. The dog growled, and we slid under the water as the light grew closer.

We hovered low and noiseless in the lukewarm water, hoping the dog would follow our lead. The cackle of teens, the clanging of PBR bottles, and scent of Marlboro Lights hovered in the fog. We waited, the dog too, and the water began to feel cooler in our stillness. I ran my hand over my arm and felt goosebumps underwater. We tried not to react when we heard a car horn honk, a voice from another teen calling them away.

Eventually their lights, laughter and scent dissipated into darkness, so we surfaced and peered across the field. We giggled as we waded towards the shore, but then silenced ourselves, for fear that older brothers and sisters and their corrupted childhood might spot us, seize us, and take us to places we were unready to visit. But only retrospect possesses this knowledge.

Dripping and satisfied in our solitude, we slipped back into our pajamas. The dog shook himself off. The rattling of tags seemed thunderous in that vacuum of sound. Again we parted the seas, attempting to follow our previous path of crushed grass in that immense dark, lit again by the weakening light of our flashlight. Distant streetlights and the occasional headlights lit up our destination. Ahead loomed his house, a faux Tudor exterior, the white stucco now visible and divided into triangles and squares, the window we’d need to reach still lit just faintly. Before we even began the climb, I had to remind myself to breathe.

We clamored up the tree, scraping our knees on shedding bark, and the dog whined quietly, as if he were mouthing the words, impatiently awaiting our safe return, so he might curl up in his doghouse and sleep soundly in the knowledge of our sanctuary. As we jiggled the window open, I pleaded for his silence, and he reluctantly abandoned his charge. We fumbled across stucco, and through the window towards the safety of his room. A Millennium Falcon nightlight lit the way, and I landed on the floor staring up at a ceiling filled with tiny glowing constellations, the faint scent of my watercolors and his leather glove. I snuck back to my room through the closet, our secret passage built by his dad when we were young, younger than we were that night.

My room, the guest room, has been changed only recently, and the pink walls have been replaced by soothing yellows. The twin I’d converted with sheets into a princess bed for sleepovers, now replaced with a queen, a deep red bedspread and soft cream sheets. I wonder if his parents patched up the passage when he left, when they took him away. I move boxes of memories aside, to assess, to squeeze through an ancient passage to the room that’s not his. Through that window, I watch for lights and hear a dog bark in the distance.

---

Meredith Harvey is an English Professor who has published primarily in academic venues on the subjects of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, and postcolonial identities. More recently she has published flash fiction in the online literary magazine Instant Noodles and in Five on the Fifth. Additionally, she published a co-written horror short story in a horror anthology by Graveyard Press.