Issue 6
October 2025
Genre Society
The
The Genre Society
Issue 6 October 2025 Published by Whitney Mcclelland Cover art "Ereskigal" created by Laszlo Aranyi
Image Credit: KELLEPICS from pixabay, Josue Velasquez from Pexels, PhotoVision from pixabay, Pezibear from pixabay
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Table of Contents
How has your year gone? How have I published four of these magazines this year, each one growing and unique and just a bit strange? Such is life too. This year, I have journaled over 300 pages. Is that healthy, or does that just go to show that I really have some things on my mind that I cannot make up and it is driving me insane? Can it be both? These past months have been testing me. Really the period of time between these magazines. Everything has weighed upon my shoulders. Or, since I am the main character in this story of my life, I am Atlas, upon who's shoulders sit the world. That is not to say the world does not also rest on your shoulders, reader. I'm sure it does. Because you are the main character in your own story. Your own world. And I just have to get my experience out of my head and onto the page. Journaling is a good way to do this. So while I have not been writing stories (yes I feel an immense guilt for not doing so), I have been writing the story of my life, which I cannot promise will ever be published. But while I've thought about it, I could never destroy those journals. Plus, I am vehemently against the burning of books. Anyway, I got lost on a tangent. This edition is an interesting one. It is spooky season, so I did curate these pieces to fit that vibe. Existential, psychological, and some humorous. I would say that is how my year has been. I could use the cliches and say it has been insane, an absolute whirlwind of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. But I'll leave it with this– 2026 will be better. For me, and for you, dear reader. We can only hope. Thank you again for reading and enjoy, Genre Lovers, -Whitney McClelland Editor and Publisher
by author
Letter From the Editor............................................. 5 Poetry Occupied Territory..................................................... 7 John Grey Absurdity................................................................... 8 Grant Moore Some Me Time ....................................................................................................................................................... 10 Scalar Multiplication ............................................................................................................................................. 11 Alec Garza Fiction Leaving Mars .......................................................................................................................................................... 13 Barry O'Farrell Flower Maiden ........................................................................................................................................................ 17 Victoria Lilly Red Bag Woman...................................................................................................................................................... 25 Morrigan Byalin Resort Satisfaction Questionnaire ......................................................................................................................... 28 Bob DeRosa Moonlight, Drained................................................................................................................................................. 31 Eunsoo Lee Specters in the Womb ............................................................................................................................................ 33 Neil Weiner Violet ....................................................................................................................................................................... 37 Jeff Griffeth For Us They'll Always Be Blooming......................................................................................................................... 41 G.D. Benton Remember to Smile ................................................................................................................................................ 44 James Spear
Greetings Genre Lovers!
Letter from the Editor
Occupied Territory by John Grey
They are in you. And not like bugs crawling on your skin. You can scrub and rinse your body ten thousand times and that won’t change a thing. They eat most of what you stuff down your throat. They walk along with you, navigating as you go. It may be your hands on the car steering wheel, but you drive to their destinations. And you sleep with them. All night, they nudge aside your dreams to indulge in a few of their own. We don’t get close for fear of their spreading. And definitely no hugs. Forget eye-to-eye contact. We fear what occupies those orbs of yours. And when you speak, other voices rise above your own.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books include Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review and Flights.
Poetry
It’s impossible not to notice. You’re no longer your old self. You’re their new identity. Yet, we still refer to you as Frank. It’s easier to pronounce that way.
One lovely Thursday afternoon two billion years ago, A star encased by arcs of moon, embraced despair and woe. This sordid joke of yellow-red, this sneering, mocking jape: To burn with heat, on axis sped with no hope of escape. So solace cursed upon a point, it drew its final plan as spinning round its lock and joint its ending now began. The heaving mass of goo morassed then gurgled once and sighed; A rattle scream of flames harassed what silent void belied. The sacrificial rings were flung in sprays across the sky; The interstitial threads then wrung as ropes once bound untie. And in these fictions fracture facts: A single atom forged and bellow blown through heaven's tracts to find itself disgorged. The crush of black, once unobserved, in fire found its sight. The atom woke from dreams unnerved in sailing stream of flight. Without a frame, it screamed in vain through parallactic curves that weave the sieves with cluttered skein of dark galactic nerves. Commotion drowned, it gazed about along the ends it aimed: The bluest gem beyond a doubt the cosmos ever named. It wept to see a brilliant Earth, the fate bestowed by chance, and in its cackles rose a mirth expressed in photon's dance. It splashed the surface spinning fast, now lost amid the sea. The water rose at what trespassed, mistook it for debris. The liquid swarm convened in waves, to flood the tiny core. They stripped and pried, as hunger craves and always wants for more. The terror flashed, as pulled apart, its briefly tasted life now disappeared before its start beneath the wetted knife. So bittersweet and incomplete, resigned into the black, the atom braced for ends to meet in swirling last attack. But fortune finds where will converged, as snatched from death it gasped and saw from depths the land emerged, where brethren all were clasped. A molecule of carbon made from crystal network cast through jointed links of atom braid that helix ghosts amassed. Began the age of afterbirths, of structure spat in space, originating blest on Earth's atomic interface. Now watch along the webbing sewn the single atom weave Through warps and wefts and whetted stone, the knits of stellar sleeve.
Absurdity by Grant Moore
Grant Moore is a software engineer with a background in mathematics and physics. His poetry often uses formal constraints to explore themes of loss, memory, and the structures we build to understand the world. He lives in Cumberland, Maryland.
Scalar Multiplication lightning spotlights tear the night, helicopter blades thunder against the backcountry's quiet, as military jeep wheels and foot soldier boots rain upon the roads space birthed a storm when it shed a lone, obsidian tear, whose tail of fire burned against luminous applause from spectating stars a snake’s body with centipede’s legs, its head pries my fingernail from skin, burrows into my cuticle, and scales into the dimensions beneath my flesh’s vector insect legs patter across veins, muscle, and bone, their teeth bite into brain, lung, and all vital objects within my set of innards– as burns spread through the elements confined within my flesh's brackets scabs scatter my skin, my arms fall like loose sleeves as something sheds my body like a shrunken coat my spine cracks as pressure pulses my back, my ribs snap as arms shift under my chest, dried skin flakes as what moves within forces an exit. hands extend inside my neck and clog my throat. scaled fingers plastered in mucus film crawl against my tongue, snap my jaw from my skull, creeping from my mouth as elongated digits taste the air Body text
Poetry by Alec Garza
Writing to ignite both fear and curiosity, Beau carves mathematically informed fear into the flesh we wear, as his work serves as a reminder: our skin can’t escape the systems that shape us.
Some Me Time cereal tastes best at night plop onto the couch– scooch the bodies to the right deep inhales, relax and unwind as I pause to indulge in sugary delight the TV woman reports of terror and fright– multiple stab wounds, the loss of life “lock your doors, turn out your lights, a string of home murders, don’t die polite!” a poke in my side from leaning on my knife blood on the blade mixed with traces of mine sludge from my boots, their floors covered in grime police sirens outside signal a shortage of time tension fails to release through my sighs so tired of interruptions to these moments I find I get back to work, setting the cereal aside
Fiction
Alert! “We have a small problem,” the voice of the Flight Commander over the cabin speakers. It was only five hours after lifting off from Mars base, “one of the provisions modules was loaded empty. Meals will have to be rationed. Sorry.” I thought empty catering carts only happened in Economy Class on commercial aircraft, I, Brad Garrick, Researcher, Technician and Astronaut, thought. My day begun differently. I had emerged into the weak light of a Martian morning. Quiet, still, frigid. Two Earth years of living underground in Martian lava tubes to avoid radiation was at an end. Now I know how the troglodytes felt, I thought. My thoughts were broken when an alarm sounded in my helmet. The radiation sensor on the suit triggered. It probably would during the walk to the vehicle. I switched it to mute and climbed aboard to begin the long voyage home. Next stop planet Earth… home, hearth, wife. 228 uneventful Earth days in transit. Funny thing, the 228 days homeward seemed to pass more quickly than the 228 outbound, despite rationed food. I filled the time formalizing my notes. The main pleasure was seeing Earth loom a little larger in the window every second or third day. The Moon too looked like an old friend from boyhood. Studying the Apollo Program led me to this career choice. Alert! Darkness. All lights out. Thirty minutes later the cabin lights came back on. “Strange glitch,” voice of the Flight Commander over the cabin speakers said. “The old ‘switch everything off, then switch ’em back on again’ worked. All systems good again.” This in a billion dollar, state of the art spacecraft… good grief. Back to daily routines. Alert! “Space junk!” announced the Flight Commander. “Kessler Syndrome is becoming realer. Yep, the zone gets more cluttered with junk every round trip. As a matter of prudence, I shall veer course to avoid a collision. I also want to check if there are any other small pieces in its damn wake. Shouldn’t delay our arrival much.” Nearly home. No more delays please. Alert! “A last minute delay,” began the Flight Commander. “Bad weather over the preferred landing sites This will mean a further 48 hours in orbit. Thank you for your patience people.” What’s another 48 hours sitting around on short rations more or less? Annoying is what. I want to go home. The trade-off was Mission Control was able to provide little news transmissions. Capsules of current affairs highlights and sports highlights over the past couple of years. Coronavirus still the major concern. It keeps evolving and won’t disappear. My extended family had gotten off light. Among the victims: a distant cousin I didn’t really know. Probably last met him in childhood. The rest of the family was safe. My wife was safe; my parents were well and probably wondering when I would make them grandparents. Safely back on Earth, quarantine/rehab/ debriefing took another 23 days. In rehab, everything felt heavy, even books. Welcome full-size meals. Welcome wide variety of drinks. Welcome phone conversations with his precious wife. It was a rush to hear the warm, seductive tones of her soft, even weak, voice. A flush came over me. Tingling sensations. Never had small talk been so wonderful and arousing. At final debriefing I took the opportunity to state I made my contribution and don’t want another deployment on the red planet, thank you very much. I walked outside and enjoyed the friendly sights, sounds and breezes of planet Earth. The sun warming my skin so different from the risk of radiation poisoning on Mars. Would be happy to stand in the rain too. The simple pleasure of the subtle changes heralding a new season. It’s the small things taken for granted. This is what I missed. On the taxi ride (this cab with a real human driver; how rare!) home, my imagination ran to a seafood dinner in an expensive restaurant. Probably a platter. Take our sweet time over it. I began to salivate at the thought. Crunch! Jolt! Metal-on-metal scraping. The taxi was sideswiped. The taxi driver asked me to stay seated whilst they exchanged details and checked the damage. After the millions of kilometres I have voyaged– a car crash. Really? What time will I get home? Will I ever get home? What else could happen? “Still drivable,” stated the taxi driver, back in his seat if a little shaken. “I’ll take you to your destination. Then I go to body shop. Talk with insurance too. I got insurance too.” The remainder of the drive home was quiet, uneventful. Debriefing included this advice. ‘Your significant other may have changed her hair colour and/or hair style. She may have even gained a pound or four. SHUT UP! If you feel you should say something, SHUT UP! Shut up and enjoy your welcome home.’ The words echoed in my mind as I walked up the path to my house, keys in hand. I unlocked the front door and called to my wife. “Honey I’m home.” It was so cheesy. Any innocent listener would think I work a regular 9 to 5 job. “In the kitchen,” she called back. I was hoping she would say bedroom but okay, the kitchen could be fun. I braced myself for her change in hair colour. I walked into the kitchen. She was seated, blouse wide open… breastfeeding a newborn baby. She looked up at me wide eyed. “We have to talk.” A terrible sinking feeling almost overwhelmed me. Fighting back welling tears, I shook my head. Slow, deep breath. “Talk… yes, we have to talk.” “Not in front of my baby.” Brad looked away momentarily, “Baby… no, not in front of your baby… your baby… right.”
Barry O’Farrell is an Australian who writes in his retirement. Barry convenes the Aspiring Writers, monthly, in a regional shopping centre. His stories have been published in print and online in a variety of magazines and anthologies including Flash Digest, Bindweed, Books Ireland, and Elsker Publishing House.
Leaving Mars by Barry O'Farrell
Victoria Lilly is a book reviewer, freelance journalist, author of short stories, and a PhD candidate in Sociology. Drawing from her folkloristic work and cultural heritage, in Flower Maiden she explores an interplay between lesbian sexuality and beliefs in the mythical rusalki.
Flower Maiden by Victoria Lilly
The rusalka’s wrath was withering our village. It was three months since she had taken away the rain. Two months since my Senya had gone to town to ask for aid. His horse had emerged from the forest, days later, with a new rider on its back– a dread mistress in a billowing gown of moonlit white, who rode the poor thing through fields and meadows into an early grave. I had not the time even to grow used to my widow’s weeds before she struck her latest and most hateful blow, spiriting my little Kalina from her cradle. My new family was nipped in the bud. My heart rent like so many flower petals in the burst of a wild, implacable gale. Which was why, on the third day of Kalina’s disappearance, I was seen off to the boundary stone by the forest’s edge. Led by a dark-faced priest, attended by a procession of sullen girls. I trudged down the main road, past houses adorned with wilting wreaths, put up on Rusalka’s Holiday and left to languish in our fruitless attempt to stay her hand. Fruitless were also the apple trees and pears, apricots and plums, on the empty branches of which we had hung more garlands, once despair sank in. Caving under the mocking glances of the dried wildflowers, I turned and stared straight ahead with eyes of glass. This was the second time we were conducting the ceremony. The first one, at the climax of rusalia, where we had seen off an effigy of wood and straw, had been to no avail– gaping baked mud beneath our feet attested to the thoroughness of our failure. Now I was to play the part of the flower-maiden, crowned with rue, substituting flesh for straw. I was neither the tallest nor the strongest among the girls of the village– I was no girl at all, for over a year having married Senya– but there was no doubt in my mind that I was destined for the part. Would they do to me what we had done to the dumb girl of the first procession– tear me apart and scatter my limbs and guts across the fields? Would the thirsty earth be satisfied with such a sacrifice? Would she be satisfied? If my blood was spilt in the place where she had cast her final gaze upon the world, would the sight appease her? That, I mused as we left the village and made down the path towards the forest, would be fitting wages of my sin. And yet, she had become spiteful enough that I doubted even such a tribute would bring back my Kalina. The thought made me shudder. “Do not be frightened, child,” the priest said and placed a hand on my shoulder. “No harm will come to you. You bear no blame in this whole sad affair. Have faith; the saints will watch over you.” “Why hadn’t they watched over my husband and daughter, then?” I spat out under my breath. “What was their blame, father? Huh? No, the heavens don’t care. They will allow her to do as she pleases. And why not let her claim me; she has already taken everything else.” It all burst out of me with severity that took me aback once the ring of what had been said settled in my ears. The words lingered bitter on my tongue. For a year now I had kept hidden my hopelessly tangled bundle of feelings, only allowing myself the mild balm of weeping in silence– but never giving voice to the anguish behind the tears. Even when they found Senya’s body floating down the river, bloated and wan, the gruesome sight never drew a cry out of me; it took Kalina’s disappearance for my heart to give in, a spool to unravel the weave of my emotions. Though I supposed that was natural, the contrast nevertheless disturbed me. What sort of wife doesn’t wail at the wake of her husband, dead before his time? The guilt surged inside me redoubled. A sob slipped out of my aching breast. Ever kind and understanding, the priest did not reproach my harsh words. Instead he pressed my shoulder slightly, letting the touch speak for itself. “She is targeting you, Motya, because you represent everything that she is not; you have achieved the things she never could– and now never will. That is the very nature of rusalki.” I could not help laughing out loud. The sound– a wail, a bawl– pierced the funeral silence as brutally as thunder. Behind me, my many attendants broke out into whispers. The priest briefly turned over his shoulder, to shut them down with a scowl I guessed, but I did not bother looking. I said, “You know very well her nature was different, father. For what other reason would she grasp at my husband and child, but to spite me?” “She must have desired these things, deep inside,” the priest replied, “or else she would not have become a rusalka. She could have made the same choice as you did, but was too childish to see reason– and now it is too late for her. It is her unripened nature, cut down before the bloom brought fruit, that causes her to act as she does. She wants to take her natural place, but does not know how to. Having never become a woman, all she knows how to do is play and tickle– and does so without measure. It is the same with her dancing, or with Senya’s horse; insatiable and intemperate as she was in life, she could not do otherwise than ride the poor animal to its death. And she took the babe–” “I believe I understand, thank you,” I cut in. As the priest fell silent, someone called out for the procession to begin the customary litany of songs. I turned now to gaze upon them as they sang. In the spring they had been magnificent, their pretty heads crowned with fresh flowers, eyes shining, cheeks dimpled by smiles. They had run wildly between the songs, teased and fooled around, as was proper. We had done the same every year of my girlhood. The funeral for a rusalka of wood and straw had been just another game. Now their once bright eyes were dull, golden heads bowed to stare at the grime kicked up by our march. Rather than playful tunes, dirges spilled from their rosebud lips. The two of us had sung teasing tunes and played together in the spring, too. We had weaved flower-crowns for each other, and prayed the summer would never end. How had our prayers turned into this curse? By now we had left the village and the orchards behind, and were well into the vast rolling fields. They were but dust, dust as far as the eye could see. When she had first appeared, during the rusalia, before I had known who she was, the soil was black and rich and moist. I recalled seeing her, from a distance, dance in that wet earth, like she had used to do when she was a girl. I watched a gown of sheer white, purer than virgin snow, billow around her lithe figure. Behind its trailing hem, corn lifted its first shy sprouts from the dirt, a promise of plenty and good. It had scarcely been a week since I gave birth to Kalina. My confinement had been difficult, I was still recovering. Yet, the pretty girl dancing in the fields didn’t only make the rye and barley rise from their slumber. A vagrant young vine sprouted from a place deep within me, twined and held my heart fast; I moved from the seat on my porch to get a better look at her. Young children ran past the wicket, calling out to the girl, sloshing down the muddy road towards the fields. Shrill cries of their mothers rumbled then, bidding them to halt. That’s a rusalka, they said in hushed voices, once they had caught up with their children. You mustn’t go near her, or she will dance or tickle you to death, they said. Do not be beguiled by her pretty face. The younglings reluctantly nodded and returned to their homes. I remained at the fence, gazing downhill at the swirling blotch of white upon the black soil. By guile or guilt, in spite of my persisting exhaustion, the next day I baked pancakes, gathered honey and fresh milk, and weaved a pretty garland of flowers for the rusalka, as my mother had instructed me when I was a child. I staggered down the bridleway separating our fields from those of the neighbors. I placed my gifts on a boundary stone for the girl to gather. It was then, as I was walking back towards the village, and chanced a brief glance over my shoulder, that she appeared by the stone and I recognised her. For all her delicate garments, the loose hair and too-perfect skin, there was no mistaking her eyes. When our gazes met, I broke into a panicked run. For months on end, the rusalka trod our fields. She was meant to move on after the first ceremonial farewell. She did not. The green grasses and flourishing crops, which she had drawn from the earth with such ardor and joy, were crushed by her unrestrained dancing. A young man from the village stumbled into her path while tending to the wilting corn; she lured him into a dance, and left his corpse for crows to devour. After that, the offers of bread, wreaths, and gowns increased, dotting every crossroads, every forest path and boundary stone– all for nothing. This procession, this funeral for the maiden of the flowers, was our last chance. If it failed, catastrophe awaited. Not that I cared. She had taken my husband from me. She had taken my child. If I couldn’t get Kalina back, save the one precious thing left in my life, it didn’t matter if I lived or died. If only I could get Kalina back, know she would live– “It’s all my fault.” The words escaped my mouth against my will. Before I could collect myself, choking sobs followed, muting the singers’ tune. The priest put his hand on my shoulder once more. “It’s no one’s fault, Motya,” he said. “We are all to blame. We erred in not dispensing justice in due order, and punishing her properly. That she remains as a rusalka is our fault.” I laughed again, tears now blurring my empty gaze. “What do you mean we didn’t punish her? What does it matter, father, whether it’s done by hemp or stone? What difference does it make, whose hand delivers the blow?” Had the elders had their way, she would have been exiled, or stoned to death in the square, with all the villagers observing the lesson. She never gave them an opportunity to do either. They cut her down from the tree, but did not bother with the rope. They buried her where they found her, at the boundary, without funeral or rites, sealing her condemnation to a half-life. Senya forbade me from visiting the grave, but to that I would not submit. I prayed my flowers and tears would be enough to soothe her pain, the only consolation I could give. The old man sighed. “There is an order to things, child. But worry not; we will put an end to her destruction today. She will not take anything else from you.” I shook my head. “I don’t think this will work,” I said. “I don’t think any ceremony will appease her. She won’t be satisfied until she has taken everything. She is out for blood.” We arrived at our destination, the boundary stone by the forest’s edge. The rock was shrouded in shadow, cast by a great birch tree behind it. I could look neither at the tree, nor the stone, nor– at its foot– the patch of green earth amidst the browns. Instead I watched the column split and fan out from the path, forming a great circle around the stone. I remained in the centre of it, while the priest moved about, adding his prayers and chants to the girls’ warbling song. They called unto the maiden of the flowers. They admonished her. They implored her. They offered up a gift of community– of taking a place among them in the circle. Usually, when the part of a rusalka was played by a living girl, we would tie a kerchief to cover her eyes and play a game of tag, those caught by the blindfolded lass tickled to tears. No one was much in the mood to play the game now, the sights of drowned and crow-pecked corpses fresh in our memories. Instead, we proceeded straight to the final part of the ceremony, the funeral rites, which she had never received. This was to be carried out in the middle of a field, but when the moment came neither the girls’ calls nor the old priest’s pleas could move me from the boundary line. Like a puppet in a travelling theatre whose strings have been cut all at once, I sank to my knees at the foot of the stone. From the pocket of my long black gown I produced a small knife, one I used to cut fruits and flowers. I ran its icy blade, especially sharpened the previous evening, aslant the open palm of my hand. This was how men sealed blood oaths, became sworn brothers, was it not? What more appropriate ceremony was there, what token more precious to offer? In one swift motion I cast my flower crown to the ground, blood dyeing the rue blossoms crimson red. I doubled over, prostrating myself before the green patch, and dug my bloodied hands into the damp soil. I savored its warmth against my palms, my knuckles, relished the wetness under the points of my fingers. Then I closed my eyes. “Come to me,” I whispered. “Finish this.” A blast of wind swept across the parched fields, lifting raw earth, tearing petals off the girls’ flower-chaplets to strew across the boundary. Another gust of cool air brought out gasps and whispers. The third surge came from a different direction, carrying green leaves from the forest groves, damp fresh air, and a call. I lifted my eyes to the old birch tree. A length of rope still hung from its branches, and rippled in the wind. Beyond, from the shadows of the forest, she was watching me. As in the fields when I had brought her gifts, our gazes met, and we looked at one another with bated breaths. That time, I had run away in terror. Different feelings held sway over my heart now. “Come and show your face if you dare!” I hissed through gritted teeth. She seemed to deliberate for a moment, saying nothing, not stirring– then stepped out into the open. Perhaps a poet might describe faithfully the flower maiden’s appearance as she emerged from her twilit domain. I cannot. However, I understood perfectly why Senya and that young man in the fields had thrown caution to the wind at the sight of her. I understood, also, why the priest and the girls making up our procession scattered at once, screaming. In life, she had been young and fair and good. Now she was neither living nor dead, a monster in the shape of a girl. A girl who had become a monster. In two or three gliding strides, she moved to the corner of the boundary stone, the chasm of wet green earth separating us. What I had expected her to do, I did not know. Perhaps to strike me, or to reproach me, or to laugh. Hers was, after all, a cruel triumph. “Are you happy?” I said quietly. “Are you satisfied? It was all for nothing. Everything I gained by that sacrifice is gone! You’ve taken my husband. You’ve taken–” I choked on my words. “You have taken my child, my only child–” Like a clump of dry dirt pressed in one’s fist, my resolve crumbled into nothing. “I hate you.” The words came out of my mouth damp and acrid. I curled the fingers of my cut hand tighter inside the soil that held her. “I hate myself. I hate them for leaving me no choice.” I dared lift my gaze, and, through heavy lashes, saw her staring at me with a hard, speaking look. You did have a choice, her eyes said. “That was no choice at all!” I cried. “What should I have done? Run away into the woods with you and starved?” We had, once, believed we could simply grow into old maids and live together in some tiny secluded cottage. That we could work and trade with the others, and be left to ourselves. We had been foolish to believe they would allow such a thing, but we were young, and fierce, and dared to dream. Eventually we grew into womanhood, and I made the sensible choice. When her brother asked for my hand in marriage, I said yes. I thought she would see the wisdom of it, make peace with the world, and we could love one another as sisters. Some other girl might well have done that, accepted the compromise, made the best of her circumstances. But as I drank in her terrifying beauty, I realised I had been the fool for thinking a spirit as firm and ardent as hers could ever bend so. That, having been closer to me than a sister, she would be content with loving me from afar. In the weeks that followed my wedding, we quarrelled daily. She called me a coward. She scoffed at me in disgust for proposing she submit in the same manner as I had done. She laughed like a person insane at the fact that I had married none other than her own brother, and thought she would not mind. She pushed me to betray my husband. She enticed and beguiled. My heart was torn between my lingering desire, and the duty I had to my new family. At length, I chose. “I am sorry,” I whispered. “I am sorry.” I noticed that I had been weeping with my brow pressed against the earth in which she was buried. I had always been slow in grasping that things had shifted around me– and was guilty of far greater blindness anyway. I had been drawn not to her beauty, or charm that was superior to any boy, or even to her strength and courage. There were many fair and plucky girls in the village. She stood apart, won my heart, because beneath all the bluster and flirting, hers was a loving and gentle nature without peer among women and men both. How had I not considered that her heart, too, might break? “Please,” I cried. “Please spare her, I beg you. If she’s still alive, bring me back my daughter. Just– let her live, and, if you so wish, I will follow you into death.” She gave no sign that my words had reached her. Wind rose again, mightier than before. It threw grit and petals into my eyes, and I shielded them with my arm. A bolt of lightning cracked the skies. When I lowered my hand, she was gone. I began to drown. Hot tears of grief and regret filled my eyes, until they spilled over to my lips, where I swallowed them between fitful cries and moans. My lungs ached. I could not stop shaking. Wild gales lashed my burning cheeks, yet I scarcely felt them. Had I been left to it, I think I would have remained lying there until I perished. Then a hand reached into the depths of my despair, took me by the chin, and tilted my face up. She had returned, with Kalina in her arms. For an endless moment I remained still and stunned. I leapt to my feet, threw my arms around her shoulders, pressed my cheek against hers and again came to weeping. Innumerable thoughts swirled inside my head, but I could not give voice to any of them, so overwhelmed I was. Thankfully, there was no need to speak at all; she eased our embrace to look at me, and read plainly all the tangled feelings my heart held. She smiled, and her cold gaze softened into the gentle eyes of the girl I had known so well. The bow of her lips parted slightly, and I recognized in her the same want that had been eating me away every day I had spent without her. There was nothing to do but bring a hand to the back of her head, lace my fingers with her tresses, and press my mouth against hers. My other hand I raised to brush my knuckles across her cheek. She shuddered in my arms, against my mouth; I recalled what it was to make her shake so under my touch, and my heartbeat quickened inside my breast. She broke our kiss and took a step back. Keeping her gaze locked with mine, she handed me Kalina. I took in the sight of the two of them, no different to any mother with her babe; I smiled and wept with fleeting joy, before taking my daughter back. The child looked at us in turn with bewildered, wide eyes. Through a chuckle, I erased the remaining tears. She kept her head bowed and her eyes fixed on my little girl. “You should go,” she said softly. One last time, I lifted my hand to her face, and cupped her cheek. She moved her head to place a kiss on my palm. I said, “You’re the only one I loved.” I said, “You’re the only one I shall ever love.” I had thought the sentiment would please her– but she shook her head. “I’ve taken much from you, Motya. Too much. I should hate for you to spend your life alone for my sake.” “I shall never be alone; I have her.” I nodded towards my daughter, who was yawning in the comfortable, easy way of those heedless of the world’s troubles. “What’s her name?” she asked. A ghost of a smile flitted across my lips. “I named her after you.” As if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Kalina’s face brightened in a way I had never seen before. A smile that would keep me warm for the years to come. She embraced me, kissed me softly on the corner of my lips. Then she nodded, and turned, and walked silently into the deepening shadows of the trees. Where she stepped, green grasses dotted the earth, sprouting with a fresh and determined vigour. Another thunder strike pierced the heavens, its roar waking Kalina. As she cried and wailed to protest having her dreams so rudely interrupted, I lifted my face to the gathering skies above. One by one, heavy drops fell against my brow, my cheek and lips– then a rumble sounded in the distance, and felled the rain from the clouds in earnest.
Morrigan Byalin graduated from Hunter College with a BA in English. She has worked as a reader for Fractured Lit and is now serving as volunteer screener for Ploughshares. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Boston University
It seemed the doctor could no longer be trusted. Shame. I liked her. Did I like the forty-minute bus ride to her Bay Ridge office? Did I like the CT scans and the contracts I signed promising I wouldn’t hurt myself? Did I like looking at black splotches and trying to find a butterfly or a face or a sleeping cat in the randomness? No, no, and actually, kind of, not gonna lie. All art is cool, even the psychoanalytic bull crap they use to differentiate between schizophrenia and depression with psychotic features. Dr. Chen assured me I had the latter. She played me real good. I didn’t notice nothing for a hot minute– like seven months– but she gave herself away because human beings are all creatures of patterns. No word or choice or color or smile or gesture is random. It’s all on purpose even if it is subconscious. And if you’re smart enough to notice the pattern, the system straight up demonizes you, calls you crazy. But I’m not crazy. After she made me look at the pictures and say what I saw, and after the puzzles and the arithmetic, Dr. Chen would give me a series of words and tell me to say them back to her. These were just “random words.” But they weren’t. And she did such a good job mixing that shit up– my compliments to the chef– that it took those seven long months– forty hours of bus rides altogether, a whole work week if you manage to find and hold down a full-time gig– for me to realize her game. “Alright, I’m going to give you six words. I want you to repeat them back to me in a different order than I gave them to you. Pink, diamond, red, woman, car, bag.” “Woman, car, diamond, bag, red, pink.” “Good, ok, orange, red, woman, night, water, plane.” Now notice that. Red and woman again. “Woman, red, orange, night, water, car.” I got one wrong, and I knew it. But who cares? She ain’t a doctor. She’s the enemy. I know that now. “Five words now, okay? Bag, blue, star, girl, television.” Bag again. And what’s a girl but a woman only smaller? “Girl, television, star, blue, bag.” “Ok, seven words now, give them back to me exactly as you hear them. Train, red, bag, woman, bridge, car.” Hear it? Hear it? Red, bag, woman. Dr. Chen thought she was slick, putting it in the middle of all them other words. But she ain’t slick. I am. The question now was what it all meant. Red bag woman. Am I gonna bag a red woman? A redhead? An Indian. Or Native American, if that’s the thing to say nowadays. Red, maybe blood. A woman on the rag– rag rhymes with bag. I didn’t have much time to figure out the clues because if I missed next week’s session, Dr. Chen would have me shipped back to Mount Sinai. And this time some meds and outpatient wouldn’t cut it. They’d light me up. Run a current through my brain ‘til the patterns all disappear, just a blur of meaningless words and colors. And then I saw her. I almost couldn’t believe it– couldn’t believe they made it so obvious. A tall white woman with dark hair and lipstick to match the red Louis Vuitton on her arm. Those purses don’t come cheap; they had to be paying her serious coin to keep tabs on me. It was genius really, to not even bother to disguise their spy– hide her in plain sight. At first, I kept my distance. She could be dangerous. But then when I was taking the train to visit my nieces, I saw her again, still carrying that bag and this time wearing shades. A rich girl like that at Grasmere Station? Nah, you’d have to be schizo to buy that shit. Red, bag, woman…train. Train was another of Dr. Chen’s words. So, this was the day it would happen. Train… car, bridge, what do those have in common? Car bombs, the bombing of bridges. Don’t listen to what they tell you, two is enough for a pattern. When I got close to her, I noticed the frayed seams of the purse, the crooked stitching– a fake Louis Vuitton. A fake purse for a fake woman. Clip-on extensions in her hair, one of her press-on French tips peeled off, revealing the glue-scarred nail bed beneath. She made a point of not looking as I followed her onto the train, followed close behind; a real woman would hurry away, nervously, but she tried to throw me off, confuse me. But she couldn’t. I wish I could’ve gotten the tired mother with her two little boys to a different car. Wished the old man with his cane wasn’t there. Wished they didn’t have to see this. But I couldn’t let her get away with it any longer. It only took one hard shove to get her to the ground. The screams filled my ears, desperate hands pulling at my windbreaker, not knowing any better; every blind man thinks he’s a superhero. But I couldn’t stop, pressing the life out from her throat. She wasn’t moving. They said later she fell unconscious when I threw her down, but I knew she was only playing possum, hoping I’d give up. Dr. Chen apologized to me, not for planting demonic seeds in my brain and having me followed, no, for not seeing the signs. I wouldn’t go back to Mount Sinai, no, somewhere else. Not prison, Dr. Chen and my lawyer, assured me– somewhere I would get help. I know what they said about me on the news, in the Advance, online. That I was just some crazy bastard off his meds. “He killed her, killed an innocent woman!” they said. “He snapped. He’s just crazy.” But I’m not.
Red Bag Woman by Morrigan Byalin
Report Satisfaction Questionnaire by Bob DeRosa
We hope you enjoyed your recent stay at our resort and invite you to fill out this satisfaction questionnaire. Please rate every question on a scale of 10 to 1, with 10 being excellent and 1 being poor. If a rating is below 10, please explain why in the space provided below. In exchange for your feedback, you will be entered in a drawing for a four-night stay at our resort (attendance of a time-share presentation may be required). 1) How would you rate the transportation to our resort? Your score: 8 The ferry ride from the mainland to the island was rad. My girlfriend Meg organized this trip with her friends TJ and Paula, and she loved that we could all ride out together. The ride itself was pretty smooth, but there was this one woman who got really sea-sick. She was puking over the railing and sweating a lot but your staff did a great job taking care of her even when she started yelling. No idea what her problem was, we were on our way to PARTY! 2) How was your experience checking into the resort? Your score: 7 Our check-in was pretty good. The girl giving out glasses of green juice was a nice touch. You should’ve put tequila in them! LOL! We were psyched to get in the pool, but then this fight broke out in the lobby. I think it was that sick woman’s husband who started it. He seemed really pissed, like foaming-at-the-mouth for real, and it took five of the front-desk dudes to calm him down. Maybe he was hoping for an upgrade or something. 3) Was your room to your liking? Your score: 9 Our room was dope! I loved how it had two separate bedrooms so we could have some privacy if you know what I’m saying (and I know you do)! I wasn’t sure about this place when Meg picked it because I saw on the website that it was family friendly and I was hoping for a place where we could cut loose. But as soon as we got unpacked, we heard people hollering and getting crazy in the halls which was a good sign. 4) Did the pool meet your expectations? Your score: 5 The pool was high-class for sure, but as soon as we got down there, we were told someone had cut themselves and there was blood in the water and for our own safety, we had to stay out. Such a buzzkill! Doesn’t chlorine kill off germs and stuff? Anyway, there were plenty of drinks and they were way strong. I guess people were drinking too much, because this fight broke out and holy shit, it was like a riot! People were fighting dirty with a capital D, biting each other and everything. TJ got scratched by some crazy chick and we thought fuck this, let’s hit the buffet. 5) Did the on-site dining venues meet your needs? Your score: 3 Okay, here’s the thing: I don’t care if there’s a riot or not, if you advertise a prime rib carving station, then you better deliver. The meat was there, but dudes in white kitchen coats were taking all the knives and running away with ‘em. Good thing your peel and eat shrimp was tasty. I ate a ton of it until all those drunk assholes came smashing through the windows, and we were told we’d have to leave. Meg and Paula were freaking out and TJ was no help, he was turning green. Not sure if he was allergic to seafood or whatever, but we took off while I was still hungry, and I’m not gonna lie: I might have put some shrimp in my pocket for later. Sue me! 6) Did you enjoy any of our on-site amenities such as the gymnasium? Your score: 2 I gotta say, the gym was lame. Just a few exercise bikes and some free weights. I would’ve given this a 1, but TJ got really pissed off and Paula was trying to calm him down and he was shaking her and Meg was telling me to do something so I grabbed one of them ten-pound dumbbells and hit him in the head and that was good enough to calm his ass down. So the gym gets an extra point for the dumbbell. 7) How would you rate the concierge and other support staff? Your score: 8 To be honest, we didn’t want to see any bullshit time-share presentation so we were going to avoid Julio, the concierge dude we were assigned to. But we were looking for band-aids for Paula, and Julio got us a first-aid kit and bandaged her up good. He told us how to get to the dock where we could take out a sailboat, which sounded lit. He was saying we should still check out the presentation, there was no commitment to buy or anything, and this pissed Paula off like you wouldn’t believe, I mean she started biting the top of his head, who does that? I wouldn’t count on a good review from her! Anyway, Meg and I decided we should just check out the boat on our own and it was a good thing we did because a lot of other people had the same idea and they were trying to beat us there. Good thing we’re fast! 8) Please rate our selection of outdoor activities. Your score: 4 At first, this was totally a 1 because the boat house was on fire and there weren’t any boats left, but then we saw one floating off shore and it was a nice day so we decided to swim for it. We weren’t expecting all these angry rioters to swim after us, but they did. Luckily, Meg and I had a head start so we swam to the boat and got in and it was pretty basic, but what the hell, at least we didn’t get charged for it. 9) Did you attend a time share presentation and how did you feel about the quality of the products offered to you? Your score: 0 No, we didn’t, fuck you. 10) How would you rate your check-out experience? Your score: 5 The boat ride back to the mainland was chill. Could’ve had more snacks on the boat or some drinks, but I had that shrimp from before and it was still damn tasty. 11) How would you rate your overall experience? Your score: 6 Drinks were good. The staff was nice. It was a pretty great weekend overall except I think Meg got food poisoning, she’s really pale and been barfing all night in the hotel room we got on the mainland. Maybe it was those shrimp, but I doubt it, I ate a shitload and I feel fine. Guess we’ll just sleep it off and get some Bloody Marys in the morning. Oh and let me know if I win the four free nights, I’d come back there in a heartbeat.
Where Bob DeRosa comes from, nice guys finish first. His screenwriting credits include Classified, Killers, and White Collar. His short fiction has appeared in Escape Pod, Every Day Fiction, and Coffin Bell. When he’s not writing, Bob studies Kenpo karate and keeps his Little Free Library filled with good stuff.
He couldn’t have her. He knew this well. She was his moon: a lone, dazzling disc of light that was never quite within his reach. He had a habit of staring at the moon from his apartment window every night. He saw her face on the smooth, pale surface. She looked down on him with cold eyes, fixing him with a hard glare. Her long white eyelashes fluttered open and closed every time she blinked. As he stretched his arms out toward the sky, he imagined holding her in his embrace, feeling her lashes graze against his cheeks. He enclosed the moon in his fist. One night, he had a dream. He saw her in his cupped hands. She was dressed in a white slip that flooded down to her ankles, like a silky waterfall. She looked up at him, her gaze unblinking. He awoke later that night to find the moon staring down at him from outside his bedroom window. The next night, she reappeared in his dream, dressed in the same silky slip. Slowly, she blinked once. Her long lashes brushed her own cheeks. As he extended his finger toward her, he awoke. The moon was shining brighter than the night before. On the third night, she twirled on his palm, like a miniature ballerina in a music box. The fabric wrapped around her body rippled with every movement. He opened his eyes, the ballerina figurine lingering behind his eyelids. Moonlight seeped through his bedroom window and onto his bed. He looked out, up at the moon. He had to have her tonight. He had to have her in his embrace, the tickle of her eyelashes, her lips on his lips. He rummaged through the garage and walked out into his lawn with rope in hands. He dragged the thick cord behind him and fumbled with one end of it, looping it into a large O-shape. A makeshift lasso. He flung the loop up into the sky, where the moon sat silently. The rope latched onto it– onto her. He tightened the rope around her waist. He pulled. She didn’t budge. He pulled again. Still, nothing. He pulled and pulled and pulled until his veins bulged in blue. Just as he was about to burst open, she finally slid from her place above. He continued to pull until, suddenly, she slipped and tumbled down. In the distance, he heard a crash. He rejoiced. The moon was his. She was his. He was the man who had pulled down the moon. Surely that gave him the right of ownership. He had proven to himself, to the world, to her, that he was worthy– deserving of having everything he desired. What he desired now was her. She couldn’t say no, could she? Now all he had to do was retrieve his earned possession. On his way toward the crash site, he could think of nothing else but her, twirling in the palm of his hand. She would dance for him. Tonight, the night after, every night. She was his. Clouds of dust fogged the air where the moon had fallen. It must have collapsed into an apartment. Concrete rubble scattered the ground. But the man was blind to the destruction. On top of the mound of concrete was the moon, radiating in all its glory. Beneath it was her, her face even paler than the moon’s. He stood there watching her in awe as her face dimmed, darkening until the last bit of light flickered off. Dragging his newest possession behind him, he returned home. Behind him, the crumpled girl followed, the rope hugging her waist in a tight embrace. No, she really couldn’t say no.
Eunsoo Lee is a high schooler from South Korea. Kindling a deep love for the surreal and comically horrendous, she turns her stream of consciousness into stories. “Moonlight, Drained," is a result of her staring out at the night sky, imagining a man lassoing the giant celestial body.
Moonlight, Drained By Eunsoo Lee
Dr. Weiner has over 40 years’ experience as a professional psychologist. He has published a variety of professional articles and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining.
Voices are pulling me apart. They chatter, shriek, moan. Sometimes they’re mine. Sometimes they’re not. Sometimes they sound like teeth grinding inside my skull. My boyfriend says I’m crazy. One second I’m kissing him, the next I’m shoving him away because I feel hands, tiny, cold ones gripping my shoulders. In class I try to focus on equations, but my pencil scrawls circles, spirals, and jagged claws. I don’t remember drawing them. At night, I wake up drenched, stomach churning, gagging like something is crawling up my spine. Once, in the bathroom mirror, I thought I saw movement ripple under my skin, just beneath my ribs. Something alive. I tell myself it’s anxiety, but the voices won’t stop. They tell me my mother failed us. That she let us die. That she picked me and abandoned us. I can’t figure out who this us is. Sometimes I see my mother cooking dinner and imagine stabbing her. The thought doesn’t feel like mine; it feels like someone else’s. My body is unraveling. I yank out my hair until bald patches appear. I dig my nails into my arms until crescents of blood appear. Sometimes I find bruises I don’t remember making. I dream of teeth gnawing inside my belly. When I wake, I’m sore, like I’ve been bitten from the inside. Then I found the scans in a folder on my mother’s desk Three hazy orbs floating together in the first ultrasound. In the second only me, I read the neat medical term above the second: Vanishing Triplets. Completely reabsorbed into the third. Only I survived. Every day, I feel less myself. My moods shift, my thoughts twist, my flesh writhes. They didn’t vanish. They’re still here. Inside. Growing. Sometimes, when I press my hand to my stomach, something presses back. I ask my mother to take me to a psychiatrist. She doesn’t hesitate. The next afternoon, after school, we’re ushered into Dr. Berne’s office. It smells faintly of lemon cleaner, but underneath, I swear I catch rot. “What brings you both here?” Dr. Berne asks, folding her hands neatly. “My daughter seems nervous all the time,” my mother says. “It’s getting worse. She’s picking at her body and frankly, I’m scared.” Dr. Berne turns toward me, head tilted, probing. “What is going on, Devina?” Inside, the scoffing begins. Don’t tell her. Don’t you dare. She thinks pills will drown us out. She thinks a clipboard will banish us. I force myself to answer. “I have these compulsions to pick at my body. I want them to stop.” Liar, they hiss. You don’t want them gone. You want to dig deeper. Peel yourself raw. Let us out. Dr. Berne smiles, the sort of smile meant to reassure. To me, it looks like a mask pulled too tight. “I’m fairly certain your daughter has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,” she tells my mother. “We’ll give her the MMPI to confirm, but I’m confident it will bear out my preliminary diagnosis.” Diagnosis, the voices snarl. She thinks she’s named us. That old fart has no idea who we are. Dr. Berne scribbles a prescription. “Lexapro,” she says. “It will help. And I recommend Cognitive Behavioral Therapy with a psychologist. That will teach her how to manage the compulsions.” My mother nods, relieved. She clutches the prescription like it’s holy writ. Inside me, the specters laugh. Lexapro? Therapy? Foolish woman. Does she not understand? We are not compulsions. We are not symptoms. We are flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. We live in your marrow, in your heart, and in your brain. No pill will evict us. Let them try, Devina. Let them think they’re saving you. All the while, we grow stronger. I smile faintly, the way a good patient should. Inside, I hear the monsters whisper: You’ll never get rid of us. We were here first. The next day my mother drives me to the psychologist, Dr. Hay. His office smells like peppermint tea and old books. He smiles as if warmth could stitch me back together. He begins gently. “I’d like to gather an extensive history, Devina.” I nod, but I don’t answer alone. The vanished ones stir. Tell him what he wants to hear. Feed him scraps. So I lie. I talk about nervousness, about worries that don’t matter. And the voices fill in the rest. Yes, doctor, she’s obsessed with her body. Yes, she fears blemishes and imperfections. That’s all it is. Nothing more sinister. Dr. Hay jots notes, satisfied. “We can work together to rearrange your thoughts into more productive ones. When you catch yourself thinking something destructive, you replace it.” Replace us? the voices hiss. We’re not walls to be papered over. We are the foundation. He continues, unaware. “I’ll give you affirmations to practice during the day, statements about strength, safety, self-worth.” Say them, Devina, they taunt. Say “I’m whole” while we hollow you out. Say “I am safe” while we gnaw you. His words are made of tissue paper. Dr. Hay places a book in my hands. “I want you to keep a journal. Write down the compulsions, the thoughts, the progress.” Yes, the voices croon. Write us into your diary. Chronicle our growth. Every word you pen is another thread binding you to us. We’ll dictate. We’ll carve our truths into your hand until you bleed. I nod politely, pretending to agree. Dr. Hay beams, believing he’s given me tools to fight back. But when I leave, the vanished ones whisper in triumph: His affirmations will rot in your mouth. Therapy is not a cure. It’s a cradle that we rock as we grow stronger. They are growing powerful inside me, not whispers anymore but commands. I freeze at street corners, three paths pulling me in different directions. Friends peel away, angry at my unpredictability. My boyfriend leaves, sick of my moods. I fall in with the stoner crowd, always eager for a recruit willing to buy drugs and sink into rebellion. I drink. I smoke. I let strangers touch me in ways I don’t want, because the screaming inside quiets when I drown myself in chaos. But it never lasts. At home, I play dutiful daughter. My parents don’t deserve the monster I’ve become, so I keep my mask polished. I tell Dr. Hay the affirmations are working. I tell him that the journaling helps. I tell Dr. Berne I feel calmer. She nods, reassured in her belief in therapy. But inside, the two laugh. They sneer at my lies because they know the truth: they are no longer passengers. They are pilots. Every day, I feel them swallowing me piece by piece. My laughter isn’t mine, my thoughts aren’t mine, my skin isn’t mine. I can’t tell where I end and they begin. On a Saturday night, when my parents go to a movie, I make my decision. I write a suicide note, kind, composed, and full of lies. I tell them I can’t live with OCD. I tell them what wonderful parents they’ve been. I don’t mention the specters inside me. I don’t want them blamed for birthing me. Then I take my father’s gun from the back of his closet. I sit on the edge of my bed. The barrel feels cold against my temple. I brace myself to pull the trigger. That’s when the tug-of-war begins. My hand jerks away from my head, then snaps back. I grip the gun tighter, then my own fingers pry at my wrist. It feels like invisible hands are wrestling for control of my body. I think of that old movie I watched with my parents, Dr. Strangelove. The scientist in the wheelchair who fought his own arm as it shot up in Nazi salutes, his body betraying him. That’s me now. Only it isn’t funny. It isn’t satire. It’s war. I’m yanked left, right, gun swinging wildly, tears streaming down my face. My arm slams against my own ribs, then rises again, the muzzle shaking before my eye. My fingers twitch, tightening, loosening, tightening again. Two voices in my head scream they don’t want to die again. I don’t know who won the wrestling match when everything goes dark.
Specters in the Womb
by Neil Weiner
The eyes glared malevolently under a baleful brow, slick with scalp sweat despite the chill air of the bedroom. The pupils had rolled back to their normal position, and they now peered spitefully at the older of the two men. “Fornicator!” the thing on the bed spat, each syllable punctuated by another cloud of breath. Father Whitney, too, looked to the tall figure standing at the foot of the bed, enrobed in the sanctity of his office and experience. “Father Morrow, perhaps you’d better step outside and rest a bit. I can continue here.” But the old man simply lifted a hoary hand to his face and removed his wire spectacles, first from one ear, then the other. He turned slightly to face Whitney. His face looked spent, the skin drooping limp under dogged eyes, shot red from a lack of sleep and the weight of stress, the flesh hanging low like a canvas sack. “Our work here is only beginning, Father Whitney,” Morrow uttered with a resigned sigh. “We must persevere.” It hiccupped loudly then, and began trumpeting a series of deep notes, a full-throated bull elk in the body of a ten-year-old girl. Its head twisted in an ecstatic agony of spasms, retching out a vulgar alphabet of guttural rapture and obscenity. “Unclean beast!” Father Morrow raised his voice until it filled the small room. “I command you to absent yourself from this innocent child!” The trumpeting continued unabated, and the dark shape on the bed arched its back to an impossible angle, barely recognizable as human now, a wraith in form and motion, its tongue flickering wildly, ululating in a mocking cadence, perversely juxtaposed to the man standing before it. The drop in the room’s temperature hung over the bed and settled into the bones of the two men. The thing hissed with assonant pleasure, openly mocking them now. “You’re both out of your depth,” it chortled with a stuttered, coughing laugh. “Father, please,” Whitney urged. “Your heart–” “My heart,” Father Morrow cried above the din, “will remain in this room with the rest of my body until we have rid this innocent child from the accursed thing which occupies her.” It continued its laughter on the bed, a discolored upper lip stretched to its limit, finally ripping apart into a taut grin. The priests began their litanies again, chanting the ancient words in a monotonous hum as the figure stretched itself prone and slowly began to rise, its back to the sheets. Downstairs, Pat stepped from the sofa to the kitchen counter for perhaps the twentieth time. “Are you sure I can’t offer you something to drink, Detective? Coffee, tea?” Her voice held, she thought. “Coffee, perhaps,” grunted Schulman with a glance upward. “Looks like we may be in for some more tonight.” Pat shuffled to the coffee maker, glad to have something to do with her hands. She focused intently on setting the porcelain mugs down and filling them quietly. “Come on, now,” said Detective Schulman. “It’s going to be all right.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You made a noise.” “Oh.” She brought the hot mugs over to the sofa. She remembered a secret from her waitressing days, a hundred years ago. When you’re carrying hot beverages just don’t look at them. They won’t spill. She didn’t know why that worked, but it always had, and it did now. Thinking about that gave her a small comfort. She handed one of the mugs to the detective. “Oh, that’s good and hot,” he said, setting it down quickly and blowing on his fingertips. “Nothing like a nice hot cup of coffee, you know what I mean? I’ll take that over tea any day of the week.” “My mother used to always say that it’s too bad coffee didn’t taste as good as it smelled.” The detective chuckled. “I’ve never heard it put that way.” “And she liked coffee, too.” A monstrous crash reverberated above them, shaking the ceiling beams. There were muffled shouts from the two priests, followed by a louder, roaring noise. Pat made another sound. This time she did hear it. Schulman got up from his seat. His head was fixed upward, jaw set in a determined grimace. “God dammit,” he muttered in frustration. “Detective.” “Well, what in Christ’s name are they doing up there? I’ve got half a mind to–” “Detective, they said we were not to bother them.” “To hell with that,” he shot back. “Look, I’ve had just about enough of this. If you think I’m going to sit down here drinking coffee, while–” “Detective!” Her voice had risen to a screechy falsetto, and she found to her dismay that she was practically screaming at this man in the living room of her brownstone. “You will sit back down now! Sit down!” The roaring and shouting from above had not stopped. If anything, it increased in urgency and volume. It reached an agonizing crescendo, then a heavy thud landed directly above them, followed by a man’s shout and then a horrifying moment of utter, complete silence. They heard the upstairs door open after that, then the voice of the younger one, Father Whitney, shouting down in a hoarse, urgent plea. “Schulman! Schulman! I need you up here right away! Ms. Hinton, please, stay where you are!” Schulman was up the stairs like a shot. Pat was surprised a man of his size could move with such speed. More voices from upstairs now, Schulman’s and Whitney’s together, each barking orders at the other. An endless silence followed. Pat stood there by the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her. She was that way for a long time, unmoving, unblinking. The whole of the known universe could have stopped outside of her home, and it wouldn’t have had any effect on her at all. Finally, mercifully, she heard the two men grunting, then saw them coming down the stairs, Schulman in front with his back to her, Whitney a few steps above. They were carrying something, struggling to get it down the stairs. She saw that it was the body of the older priest, Father Morrow. “Don’t look, ma’am,” huffed the detective. “Just point your eyes somewhere else.” She somehow found her voice. “Detective.” “Go on and look away now,” he wheezed. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital. I just hope we can get there in time.” “Detective, what happened up there?” They had reached the bottom of the stairs. “You stay here. Listen to me.” Detective Schulman lowered the body of the priest to the patterned carpet. He breathed heavily. “Do not go up those stairs. You hear me? I don’t care what happens or what you might hear. Just stay put. Do not engage with that thing. Don’t do anything until we get back.” Father Whitney looked at her. “You must remember, Ms. Hinton, that the thing in the upstairs bedroom is not your daughter. Don’t ever forget that.” He nodded his head to the detective and they lifted Father Morrow again. And then they were gone, and she was alone in the house. No, not quite alone, she thought. She looked to the walls for some sort of guidance or explanation. To the carpet, the innocuous kitchen counter. The two mugs still sat on the table where they’d been when the detective ran up the stairs. She’d bought those mugs, and two others like them, at a yard sale a few years ago. That had been an autumn Saturday, she remembered. The leaves had just begun to change color. It was a day just like today, she thought. “Mother.” The voice was not her daughter’s. It was the croak of the river toad, the rasped complaint of the rusty screen door. There were other sounds in it, too. Violet was descending the staircase slowly and smoothly, like she was floating. Her grin was a knowing grin. Her face was a weathered patchwork of scars and lesions, like beaten leather. The hair that Pat had combed out just last week had surrendered itself into a tangled abandon. “Oh Vee,” she said, relief washing over her. “Thank god that’s all over.”
Violet By Jeff Griffeth
Jeff Griffeth is the author of several short stories and poems. He lives in Durham, North Carolina with his wife and son.
From his office window, Chief Director Melvin Mran watched as Theos Bela entered its final stages of collapse. Heavy metals and cosmic particles erupted off the star’s surface, nuclear shrapnel scattering across the heavens. Swelling as it died, the celestial surface raced toward the Interstellar Hall of Omni-History, a cosmogonic museum rotating in nearby orbit. Melvin stared at the star until he could watch no more. The heat radiating off the window had long since dried his tears, but he still wiped his face, as if trying to clear away the despair. It wasn’t the blaring alarms that got him moving. It was the thought of Seena. What would she think, seeing his last moments spent in sobbing self-pity? Hustling from his office, he passed the Engineering Deck, the Escape Pods, and the Flashport Tubes. None held any hope. The closest ship was the Monroe, but it wouldn’t arrive in time to port him over. Escape pods weren’t an option either. Due to a scheduling mishap, there had been twenty-seven personnel aboard and only twenty-six pods. As the most senior staff member, Melvin had elected to remain when rescue still seemed possible. If the Monroe had only been closer. If they’d sent a distress call when the star’s core first spiked. If there’d been a twenty-seventh escape pod. Any of those, and things might be different. But they weren’t. Fighting against the tremors rattling the museum’s hull, Melvin raced into the Natural Cosmos Exhibit, a pair of enormous lunar crustaceans championing above the entrance. Using a service corridor, he cut through the Cultural Expressions Wing, charging past Bquig Lban’s portrait of the First Saturnine Congress, the Nine Busts of the 5D Dynasty, and a pair of Picasso originals. Taking another service corridor, he exited onto his final destination: the Exotic Instrumentations Display. Racks of instruments lined the walls. Tomiflutes. Hypnotic Choir Boxes. Humming Skulls from the lost world of Shav. On the far side of the display, beneath a wall length window through which he could see Theos Bela raging ever closer, sat a grand piano. Its lid gleamed with the dying star’s light. Melvin slid onto the bench, running his fingers across the keys. They were cool to the touch. His breathing calmed. His trembling hands stilled. He played, tentative at first, and music filled the doomed hall. As if harmonizing, the museum’s hull groaned in agony. A minute, maybe two at most, and it would all be over. Melvin exhaled and played on, the Exotic Instruments Display fading beneath his melody. In his mind, he saw himself waiting in the Culture Ministry Headquarters; eight years younger and nervous in an ill-fitted suit. A Mechanical Intelligence had entered the lobby. “Welcome to the Culture Ministry, Mr. Mran," it said, their steel grip cold. “I’ll be conducting your orientation today.” His facilities tour had taken him past the Emerging Languages Lab, where they stopped and watched a scientist inspect a strobe language, the phosphorescent semaphores reflecting in her goggles. Attuned as she must have been to unspoken languages, the scientist peered up and caught Melvin staring. She had a round face and full lips that curled into a half smile. Before she turned away he stole a glance at her badge. Dr. Seena Shimoda. Melvin’s fingers lifted off the piano keys. He’d floated up, same as the piano, the Tomiflutes, and every other thing in the Omni-History. There’d been no explosion. No screech of alarms. One moment the gravity field had worked, the next it had not. The piano drifted away and Melvin swam after it. Feet splayed above his head, he resumed playing. “Two years is not so long.” Seena had sat on their balcony, toying with her wedding band as she always did when thinking deeply. Her eyes scrunched, as if discovering a new facet of their dilemma. “A Directorship is an enormous honor. You should be proud.” “The Board assured me a posting of my choice if I get the Omni-History up to standard,” Melvin said, trying and failing at enthusiasm. “So that’s what you’ll do,” Seena said.“Then we’ll start the rest of our lives.” Two months later he’d departed by starliner, Seena there to see him off. Telling him to be strong. That she’d see him soon. A crack on the window spider-webbed larger. Melvin lost his grip on the piano and spun in slow-motion. His chest ached, as if without gravity shackling them his insides desperately wanted out. If only there’d been another escape pod. If only the Monroe had been closer. If only. The piano collided against the wall and white keys spiraled free. Ivories danced around him and Melvin grasped for them in vain. He imagined himself living in a retirement community. His hair graying and lines gathering near his eyes. Maybe he’d have an excellent view of a park, the type with young couples picnicking and children playing. Maybe there’d be halli flowers blooming along the walking path, their phosphorescent petals reminding him of the light by which he first saw his wife. Seena would be there too, her age marked hand entwined with his. “Those Flashports will ruin our view of the halli flowers,” he’d say, nodding at the construction site beside the park. She would rest her head on his shoulder. “Even if we can’t see them, we’ll know they’re there. For us, they’ll always be blooming.” Melvin choked back a sob and stared into the sky. Not a cloud there. Just the sun– bright and angry, swelling until it dominated the horizon. Surging larger, Theos Bela shattered the museum’s window and solar plasma swept in, obliterating the piano, the Humming Skulls and the entire Interstellar Hall of Omni-History in a flash. Melvin squeezed Seena’s hand one last time.
For Us They’ll Always Be Blooming By G.D. Benton
G.D. Benton is a speculative fiction writer living in Las Vegas, NV. He's previously been published in Altered Reality Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Bone Parade. More of his work can be found at gdbenton.com.
Remember to Smile By James Spear
James Spear studied English Literature at the University of Central Florida.
The doc meandered in through the doorway. His tongue clicked and clacked at the roof of his mouth. His neck curled over like an antique candle snuffer as he stared at the clipboard. “Positive news. Yep. You qualify for the procedure,” he sniffed. “You’re in the ninety-seventh percentile for a lack of enthusiasm. Well,” he paused. “I guess I wouldn’t say that’s positive...” he grinned. “But you will be soon, that’s for sure.” His left eye wobbled a bit. The shade was off. I didn’t notice an hour prior when he was explaining the psychological tests, but it must’ve been glass or something. I stared deeply into it and felt like I was falling into a trance. I don’t know how I missed it. I don’t know how. “That’s good,” I looked off to the side. “It’ll be great soon,” he picked up his energy. “Had a guy that was in the ninety-eighth percentile once. It was like he was dead already. But man did he turn things around.” He grabbed my shoulders. “This is awesome news!” I nodded. “As explained previously, but for redundancies sake...” he said. He wheeled over a machine. It was larger than an oxygen tank. Had a similar shape. There were tubes running out of it. He unhooked something attached to the back end and moved it around like he was a pitcher warming up his arm. Managed to wrestle it in front of my face. Held it up like he was about to stab me in Hitchcockian fashion. It looked like a giant crayon. Except stainless steel. “We take this here transmogrifier, and like a Ginsu knife we chop and cut up everything in there and remove the parts that are blocking your ability to enjoy things.” “That doesn’t actually hack away at my brain, does it?” “Oh gosh no,” he laughed. “It's more like a suction,” he made that whoosh noise a tad bit long for my liking, “from a vacuum cleaner.” He raised it over my head. “It gets deep in there and removes the bad. The good's still there. They’re still in there. Somewhere. It’s not that you lack enthusiasm, it’s that you’ve got too much in there. Too much additional bleh muddying up your ability to enjoy life. So, we siphon it out; and you get to feel like a million bucks. How does that sound?” “Sounds great,” I said. It wasn’t convincing. The doctor’s right cheek pinched like he tasted something sour, and he nodded his head. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “You’ll see. You’ll feel better than you’ve had at any time in your entire life. Guaranteed,” he patted me on the shoulder. “We should be able to schedule an appointment for next week. Jan will set that up on your way out.” I hopped off the waxy paper and made for the exit of room six. “Don’t forget, Carl,” he said. Fists balled. “This is good news, you’ll see.” Asked my grandad once if he ever felt empty. We were sitting on a bench. The steam drifted off his ceramic mug. One of those ol’ tiny, off-white ones. “Not today,” was written in script on two sides. The handwriting was shitty– like a child still learning longhand. Not sure he ever washed it. His head teetered back at the question. Then he sipped his coffee and stared at the trees and stared at the embankment for what felt like a lifetime. “Every day,” he said. “Every day.” This all came about from a targeted ad. It popped up on my phone while I attempted to distract myself from all of existence. I was in awe; watching a man attempt to change a lightbulb of some antenna that must’ve been a quarter of a mile above the Earth’s surface. The sheer nerve. Apparently, he gets paid over twenty thousand every six months to do it. Each attempt. He must be insane. The higher he got, the narrower the ladder rung. Once he neared the top, the rung was no wider than his hands. The view below looked like the still of a satellite photo from space. The advertisement interrupted the center of the ascent, and it was of a man who looked like Johnny Depp if Johnny Depp became a substitute teacher. And he was welcoming me into the kingdom of heaven. I immediately skipped it only to be bombarded by an intriguing yet oblique advertisement of a similar sentiment: Nothing to look forward to? Are you woefully dissatisfied with every aspect of your life? Has depression grabbed its hold of you to the point you don’t even know what joy felt like? You’re in luck! Call today and see if you qualify for a procedure that’s proven to turn any stick-in-the-mud into the person you were always meant to be! Call now! Then the phone number ran across the tiny rectangle in big, cheesy, yellow digits and that felt more comforting than the bible. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the doc had a prosthetic hand. I don’t know how I could’ve missed it. I don’t know how. I told my wife I had a mandatory educational seminar and that I’d be back on Monday. It seemed flimsy so beforehand I found a conference that fit the bill and booked a free seat online. Printed it out. Found directions from a La Quinta nearby to a Marriot it was held at. Slid them under the magnet of the refrigerator. I print things out for reference. I always lose signal when I need it. It was convincing. I almost thought I was going. And she never would suspect anything was afoul. I’m not the type to cheat. But, regardless of how much I care for her... I’ve never felt whole. There’s always been a large part of me that’s felt unfulfilled... like when the toilet flushes and only a few dribbles make it out of the tank. "You’re gonna wanna count back from ten,” the doc said. A light blue medical mask covered his mouth. The blur of a heavy prescription headband magnifier duck-billed from his eyes. He pulled a light over my head with his right hand. Scratched the left side of his brow with clearly a prosthetic hand. “Hey, is that...?” Everything went black. When I woke up two days later, I couldn’t stop smiling. I don’t know why. “Well...? How do you feel?” Doc said. He poked me in the right shoulder with the fake hand. “Do ya feel like a new man?” He grinned. My smile was so taut and over the top, I thought my cheeks would eclipse my eyeballs. Everything felt different. Everything looked different. I almost didn’t realize he had hair. I could’ve sworn he was bald before. A man bun intertwined and wrapped up like a peacock on his head. Thing is– I didn’t care. I was too goddamn excited to be awake. “You’re kinda freakin’ me out,” Ellen said from the kitchen. My wife. Her head cocked to the side. “Why do you say that?” “You’ve been staring at that doorknob for forty-five minutes.” “Oh, really?” “That’s not what bothers me.” “What’s that?” “You haven’t stopped smiling since you’ve gotten back. It’s disturbing,” she paused. “Are you on drugs?” “No, of course not.” “Don’t look at me like that. Please... stop it. It’s like a horror movie.” I turned away. My hands pawed at my jowls to push the expression down. It took a minute. “Now you look like a trickster. Holding a secret, are we?” “I don’t know what you mean. Why can’t I be in a good mood?” “You’re freaking me out, Carl.” “I’m just happy to see you. Happy is all.” Her eyes became dots. I went to work the next day. I could tell Ellen was ecstatic about it. She worked from home as a paralegal and got a little too much of my new “me” in a single dose. But she’d see. There’s nothing wrong with being happy. Even when it doesn’t make sense. I felt the piercing, judgmental eyes from Detective Labachie. His arms were crossed. His mouth was a subtraction sign. He leaned against the Buick in contempt. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what all the hubbub was about. I was minding my own business, performing the sprinkler dance over the murdered body of a drive-by shooting. What better way to celebrate life than over a mindless killing. It was a tribute, ‘tis all. As the Duxom County Medical Examiner, it was my job to officially determine the cause of death. The dancing was simply my way of bringing gaiety to life's inevitable demise. No more so than the celebration during Dia de los Muertos. Six hours into my shift I had been put on an indefinite leave. I burst through the front door, whistling like an Eastern Wood Pewee encased in crack cocaine. “Babe, Babe! You’ll never believe what happened today! I’m getting time off! Isn’t that the best?” Ellen didn’t answer. I put my bag down on the kitchen island and noticed a folded-up piece of computer paper. Carl– I'm not sure what happened to you at the conference... but I think you’re having some type of psychotic break. You need to see a psychiatrist. I will be staying at my mother’s house. Seek help. IMMEDIATELY. Call in from work. I can’t put my finger on it. But nobody is that happy. It’s unnatural. And you’ve been such a glummy guss you’re whole life. That’s who I married. This makes no sense. You can’t just be happy all of a sudden. Not all the time. And not like that. Find out what’s wrong with you. Until then, don’t call me. –Ellen The tears rip-roared hard and fast from my eye. They traveled to my teeth, hugging away as my smile almost tore my face off. I ended up back at the doc’s office. The waxy paper clung to my ass. The door swooped open. “How we doing big guy? Did you come to compliment me for your life-changing procedure already?” He grinned. “It’s been known to happen after only a couple days.” His prosthetic hand clawed at his nose. I didn’t know how to say this to him. That I was too enthusiastic about everything. That it was ruining my life. It was such a confusing thing to describe that I almost didn’t notice that the doc was black now. Nothing wrong with that of course. However, it’s quite jarring when an individual who was short, bald, and white one week all of a sudden is an entirely different looking individual and doesn’t address it. It makes one feel a bit insane. “Everything okay?” “For the most part. Yeah, it’s great,” I grinned. “I feel incredible. Really.” “Yeah, yeah...” “Except I need to go back to the way I was before.” The doc's grin vanished. “I need you to reverse it.” Still smiling. “Why?” “It’s ruining my life. My job put me on a sabbatical, my wife left me. Everyone thinks I’m losing my mind.” “Get out of here and shut the front door.” “It’s true.” He sat down in one of those shitty, gray chairs too low for proper back support and his legs slinked out. “All for being happy...” I nodded. “I’ll never understand our species...” “You and me both. You and me both.” When I woke up the doc had just entered the room. He sat down next to me with a face searching for answers. He had two real hands this time. I just went with it. “Carl? How do you feel?” “Well...” I coughed. “Utterly empty.” “Fantastic,” he said. He didn’t mean it. We sat for a bit without saying anything. I thought about thanking the doc, but I don’t think he helped much. After a few more moments, I had to ask him, “Didn’t you have a prosthetic hand before?” He turned to me, “What?!” Trudged home. Managed to convince the district supervisor into removing my mandatory leave of absence. Called Ellen. Explained to her what really went on. She came back from her mother's, disappointed. But aren’t we all?
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