Debut Issue
Read at your own risk
July 2024
Genre Society
The
Featured Authors: Rachael Krygsman Jayvian Kibble Whitney McClelland Caleb James Stewart J.S. Couch
The Genre Society
Issue 1 July 2024 Published by Whitney McClelland
Image Credit: KELLEPICS from pixabay, Josue Velasquez from Pexels, PhotoVision from pixabay, Pezibear from pixabay
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The content provided in The Genre Society is intended for literary and entertainment purposes only. The views and opinions expressed in the articles, stories, poems, and other content are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Genre Society, its editors, or its staff. All stories, poems, and other creative works published in The Genre Society are works of fiction unless explicitly stated otherwise. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors' imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All content published in The Genre Society is the intellectual property of the respective authors. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to The Genre Society and the respective authors with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. The Genre Society assumes no responsibility or liability for any errors or omissions in the content of the magazine. The information contained in the magazine is provided on an "as is" basis with no guarantees of completeness, accuracy, usefulness, or timeliness. The Genre Society reserves the right to update or change this disclaimer at any time without prior notice. Any changes will be effective immediately upon posting to the website or magazine. For any questions about this disclaimer or the content in The Genre Society, please contact us at submissions@thegenresociety.com or visit www.thegenresociety.com. All images obtained via Unsplash. Magazine designed and published through Marq.
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Table of Contents
Letter From the Editor ............................................................................................................... 6 Poetry Purple Dream ............................................................................................................................... 7 Listen to Your Mother ................................................................................................................... 8 Belly Up ......................................................................................................................................... 8 Rachael Krygsman Fiction The Price of a Green Thumb ........................................................................................................ 9 Jayvian Kibble Burned and Buried .................................................................................................................... 13 Whitney McClelland River Horse ................................................................................................................................. 22 Caleb James Stewart Men Enough to Face the Darkness ............................................................................................ 25 J.S. Couch
“A short story is a different thing altogether – a short story is like a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.” ―Stephen King, Skeleton Crew
I hope this first collection of The Genre Society finds you in the midst of a fun-filled summer! I know mine has been busy, having gone to Iceland for a writing workshop and returned to dusty old Texas to suffer through 2 fast-paced summer grad classes. This magazine has given me life back. It has revitalized my positive outlook for the future, and instilled an intense pleasure in publishing, editing, and, of course, reading good fiction (and poetry, but I do less of that). Please enjoy the stories and poetry featured in this debut issue. They come from some of my closest colleagues and classmates before I open the magazine up to the public for submissions. Please, share with your friends, family, and those you know like a good genre story. This edition includes speculative poetry, a few horror pieces, a story which mixes sci-fi and horror, and a hilarious magical realism flash fiction. Please enjoy, and if you have any of your own fiction or poetry to submit, please read through our submission guidelines. If you have any suggestions for upcoming issues, please also email them to that address. I would love to hear what you think! Enjoy Genre Lovers, -Whitney McClelland Editor and Publisher
by author
Rachael Krygsman is a poet and an English teacher in Nacogdoches, Texas. She has her MFA in creative writing from New Mexico State University. She was awarded the Peter Harris-Kunz Endowed Award in Poetry. Her work attempts to navigate the struggles of late realized trauma and sexual identity through an autistic lens. She is currently working on getting a book of her poetry published.
Poetry by Rachael Krygsman
Purple Dream Magical Realism Smog and pollution warping the window at 4:03 in the morning. I stare down spinning highway tunnels, into my own. It becomes the throat I speak through, raging cars speeding in the rush hour conversation between us. Green eyes smoked red and the tilted head of off ramp exiting because our sky high discussion is over and I am already emptying the memory tank for tomorrow. The bed is eating the body floating next to me, head buried, shoveled into the mouth of a pillow, so tightly wrapped the memory of Christmas is a vivid video, playing in VCR strips of my brother opening gifts. The white wisps falling out the window are unsolicited ghosts, cold and pressing on the cars rumbling inside my chest. I keep reaching out to wake you and never making it and I think that maybe that is hint enough.
Greetings Genre Lovers!
Letter from the Editor
The Price of A Green Thumb Magical Realism/Horror
Belly Up Horror Who shoos a wild animal from a kill? is something my mother asked once, as a joke. The image—a wandering feral digging into road- side roadkill—the visceral feast. A wandering feral under her tires with twisted guts for skin and cracked bones for teeth and a vibrating rattle evicted from gaps in its throat. And it begins to sway, an afterlife of dancing between hot metal beasts, draping dripping derma to say, “I look good in death”. These stray bodies, moving, left on roadsides homes through Texas pines and hallways, finding deadthings to bring home, deadthings to whisper to deadthings I try to keep from my parents’ eyes—should be roadkill, not for me, a daughter— teeth misaligned, under familiar tires, all crooked.
by Jayvian Kibble
Listen to Your Mother Horror The fear is touching what the spider touched— legged fear ghosted on arm hairs, like brother blowing behind the ears, ghost twitches, like feeling your fingers growing hair. So Mother says not to kill hairy-armed friends that God built with a thousand eyes. “They’re not watching us” but, then, What are they watching? – I’m always told I’m a smart-ass, but those “what ifs” feel like loosely threaded tarantula skin on toes under bed sheets. Then it’s legs touching legs touching nervous system through fangs as the sweat cool swims through me. The real trick is the truth. The fear is not of the spider, but the consequence of spiderness.
January was a harsh month for the Johnsons and their garden. A break was given to them once the cold front left for a couple of days and the sun provided much needed warmth to their flowers. Jo’leen helped Mama in the garden by handing her mulch and gardening tools, freshening the flowerbeds for new seeds. Between breaks, Jo’leen ran off to look at the other flowers in the garden. She ran past rose bushes, azaleas, tulips, and dandelions. She let her tiny fingers run along them. She walked to a lone sunflower in its own bed in front of the house. She thought nothing of it since it was in the sunniest part of the yard: the front of the house right in front of her bedroom window. She always liked looking down from her window and seeing the little flower wave at her on windy days. Jo’leen had never seen a small sunflower with only six petals around its brownish center before. She felt the dirt around the flower and it was cold. Maybe it still frozen, she thought as she zipped up her jacket and rubbed her hands together. She scooped some of the soil in the sun close to the flower’s stem and held her hands to the dirt to apply her own heat. “Haa, haa. I hope this helps you– haa, haa– lil’ flower,” she said in between small huffs of breath. “Jole! Jole?” Jo’leen looked back and saw Mama coming around from the back garden. Jo'leen removed her hands and gave them a quick swipe across her pants. She grabbed the water hose nozzle with both hands and squeezed as hard as she could but only tiny drizzle came out. She held it over the sunflower before dropping it back on the ground. A cool breeze blew a small giggle passed her ears. She looked up but saw no one except Mama, sprinting towards her. Jo’leen turned to see if she messed up the water hose and that was the reason Mama was running. As she turned back to Mama, the flower caught her attention. It seemed to be looking up at her now, the sun behind their backs. Jo’leen smiled, hopped a little, and ran to meet Mama. “Mama, Mama! I fix’d it. I fix’d it.” “Woah, slow down. What you fix? What were you doin’ up here?” Jo’leen grabbed Mama by the hand and pulled her along. Once they reached the flower, Jo’leen pointed and beamed at what she had done. The look on Mama’s face stopped the bounce of excitement and Jo'leen mumbled a soft “I’m sorry” instead. “Oh, honey. You didn’t do nothing wrong, but your daddy and I told you about coming here over and messing with this flower.” Mama bent down. “Lovebug, don’t mess with this thing. I know you tryin’ to help, but this flower don’t need help.” “But, Mama, I fix’d it. Look, a new petal.” Jo’leen reached out to touch the new petal that appeared to unfurl before their eyes. Snatching her up in one swoop, Mama shouted, “Don’t touch that! Don’t feed this flower no more, you hear me?” Jo’leen mumbled “yes ma’am” and Mama gave her a hug and kiss as they walked away to tend to the lilies. Jo'leen looked at the flower one more time and waved. Sorry, flower I can’t help you no more. As the day grew dark, Jo’leen and her family sat down for dinner. She couldn’t take her mind off the flower, seeing it through her bedroom window later that afternoon with its face almost touching the ground. At night, when temperature dropped and it becomes windy, she could picture the poor flower fighting to stand up against the wind, its poor stem bobbing up and down and up and down. “Jole, honey, what’s wrong?” Daddy asked. She looked to Mama, who watched her through slitted eyes. Jo’leen shook her head and took a bite. Daddy looked from her to his wife but neither looked up from their plates. They all ate in silence. After dinner, the clinking of dishes in the sink was Jo’leen’s cue to go upstairs and brush her teeth. A few minutes later, she came back down to ask Daddy if he could read her a story instead of Mama,but she heard them talking at the sink. Their backs were turned as she tiptoed to the entrance of the kitchen. “I thought I told you to kill it.” “Honey, I did what you asked, but she said not to kill— “ “Well, I say cut it. Do what you have to. I want that thing gone! I want that thing gone!” They’re gonna cut the sunflower. Jo’leen tiptoed towards the front door. “Where you going this late at night?” Mama looked at her with her hands on her hips and her mouth pressed into a frown. Jo’leen sulked to the stairs and Mama turned back to the kitchen. “Can Daddy read me a story tonight?” Jo’leen mumbled to Mama's back. “Go onto your room. I’ll tell him.” A door opened and closed. Mama looked over her shoulder; her husband was nowhere in sight. She turned to finish washing the last dish. The next morning, Mama went to wake Jo'leen and help her get clothes ready for school. She opened the door but Jo’leen was still in bed. “Jo’leen, honey, you going to be late. Hurry and get u— “ Jo’leen didn’t move. Mama walked over to shake her when she felt how cold she was. She flipped Jo’leen on her back and pressed her ear to her tiny chest. “Oh, no. Nononono. Oh, God, no! Jo’leen, wake up baby. Wake up.” Mama fervently rubbed Jo’leen’s arms, legs, and chest to transfer some heat to her. She placed her head on Jo’leen’s chest again and heard a faint beat this time. She started to compress the small chest with little strength and gave her some breath. No warmth. As she wrapped Jo’leen up in her floral print comforter, she rushed downstairs. “Nelius! Cornelius?!” In between kisses to her daughter’s forehead, she continued yelling her husband’s name, yet nothing opened Jo’leen’s eyes. She rushed to the kitchen phone and out of her peripheral, she saw her husband standing at the sunflower’s bed with a pair of bloody scissors. She dropped the phone and ran out to the garden, cradling her child. “Cornelius! Cornelius, what happened?! What did you do?!” She saw the cut flower in a pool of bright red blood. Her husband didn't move as the flow of red continued steadily from the cut stem. “Honey? Honey, look at me. What is this? Cornelius!” He managed to look her way but saw a lifeless Jo’leen, lips turning blue, and fell to his knees. “I didn’t want this. This wasn’t what–” “Cornelius?” “She said we would know the price in seven years. Seven petals.” “You aren’t making any sense, Cornelius. I thought– You said this was supposed to be our good luck charm! Look at our baby!” “This flower I bought as our charm to become better gardeners was a lie. I bought it for you– for us.” He gestured to the three of them, regret flowing in tears down his cheeks. “But– but we were— and Jole was…” Mama looked down at her lifeless baby cradled in her arms. “I wanted to give you what you really wanted. What we wanted for so long.” Daddy reached out to her, but she moved a step back. She crushed Jo’leen to her chest and stared beyond him. He reached out again, but she smacked away his hand. The wind carried away the sounds of that day: her husband's uncontrollable sobs and the faint whisper of their little girl’s giggle. Jayvian Kibble is a high school English teacher who has a love for reading and writing. In her free time, she likes to relax by spending quality time with her husband watching movies or playing video games.
Burned and Buried Horror
The pulpit bites into your palms as you squeeze it and sweat beads along your brow as you speak– “and the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire.” You ease your grip on the wood, palms sticky. Sweat sneaks under your arms and clings to your shirt, gluing it to your skin. What would they think, their Bishop sweating through his shirt during sacrament? You look out at your ward, their eyes glistening, glazed, staring. Hopefully the families sitting in the front row, the ones with little children who squabble and poke at each other– where your wife used to sit with your son– could not see the drops of sweat marching down your temples. The church is hot. Guilt burns the brightest flames, and you haven’t quenched those. How can you lie to them, to everyone, so easily? Eyes of varying colors stare up at you, looking for guidance, begging for reassurance. Peace. You look down at your notes. The words catch on the roof of your mouth and refuse to budge past your tongue, so you clear your throat and finish the sermon quickly, forgetting the value statement to quickly mutter amen. You ignore sighs from the mothers wrangling their wiggling children as you step from the podium and wait for the conductor to guide the congregation through the closing hymn. In silence, you stare at your lap, unable to join the chorus, but everyone reads from the hymnal so for once their eyes focus elsewhere. When you do look up, a little girl, Alma, no older than six, sits up hugging a doll with a crack through its left eye. You remember that doll, vaguely. A chill creeps up your spine and lingers behind your left eye, an itching that ceases once you look away. Normally, you greet the families as they leave, smiling at the children, shaking the men’s hands. But the last year has been different. You try to make it to your office unnoticed, but how could you? You’re their Bishop, and Brother Horne guides his wife, grasping the hands of his son and little Alma, who holds the doll, right to you, pushing past other families. “Bishop,” Brother Horne begins, clearing his throat. You turn, glancing first to him, then to Alma, who won’t meet your gaze. Her little brother tugs at her skirt and she growls. “We were hoping to ask you for a blessing.” Your hand goes to your pocket, digging around to fidget with your keys. “Sure,” of course you’d do that for them. You’re the Bishop. But the doll moves. Your eyes jerk to it and make contact. Did it move or did Alma just shift her stance? You force yourself to look at Brother Horne. “It’s the doll,” he says, and your face pales. Of course it is. “Ever since we got it, she’s been sleepwalking,” he pulls Alma forward, the doll’s eyes still on you. Your body itches from the sweat tickling your hairs. “She says things that don’t make sense,” but he doesn’t elaborate. You smile, tightlipped, glancing at the doll. A crack snakes across its face, zigzagging through the left eye and curving to cut the mouth in half. Its cheeks flush with excessive pink blush, sealed beneath a chipping glaze. Shockingly beautiful. Brother Horne explains last weekend they went on a family outing downtown. You live in an old town with an imposing, historic courthouse in the center of a roundabout, old shops huddled in clusters in the surrounding blocks. They stopped into the second-hand store for fun, to see what old toys had been discarded and were begging to come home with them. “Alma found the doll,” he tells you. “She loves it, went right into the store and walked straight to it. She wouldn’t let us hold or give it to the cashier. She just hugged it and kept saying, baby, my baby.” Just like your ex-wife had done with it before she had your son. That was her doll. The one you donated so you’d stop thinking about them. Brother Horne claims during the day, the doll is attached to her hip, one arm wrapped tightly around it. “She won’t sleep without it.” “I can come tomorrow morning?” A question you intend as a statement, but the father shakes his head. “Tonight, this evening?” His lips press together tighter than yours and disappear. Behind him, Sister Horne shushes her son, who has begun to cry. “Sure, yes,” you nod, stepping away. “I’ll be over in an hour.” And you are. You bring your Bible, tucking it under an armpit, close to your heart. Driving to their gloomy home reminds you of your own silent abode, devoid of life and color without your son or ex-wife. Do you live in hell on Earth? Or have you just gone colorblind once they left? Your heart sinks like a cold stone as you drive up to their house. Clouds gather to blot out the sun. Dread is the word, and it comes to your mind, tickles your brain. You kept it in the back of your mind, pretending to ignore the overwhelming pressure upon your shoulders. Their house is dark. Why? It’s hardly six o’clock, but all lights are off. The sun hides as it sinks below the horizon, setting earlier and earlier these days, and you use your phone as a flashlight. You clench the bible under your arm and knock. Immediately as the door opens a dank smell seeps out. Brother Horne greets you, shaking your hand and pulling you inside. His wife emerges to join in the entry way; a large– carpeted– room. Your shoes squelch as you enter. “We got home and realized a pipe burst,” Brother Horne sighs, “and I don’t have your number. But maybe you can help? I’ve called the plumber.” Of course you help. You’re here, anyways. Sister Horne holds a basket of towels, handing several to you. A squeegee would be better, to push the excess water from the front door. Better yet, why don’t you just tear out the carpet and haul it outside? Towels just add to the mess, but you stay quiet and place the towels down for Brother Horne to step on while Sister Horne takes them to the bathroom to wring out. As you work, Brother Horne fills you in. Alma sleepwalks, remember? She would wander into their room at night, mumbling, silent tears dripping down her cheeks. And the doll is always perched on her bed when they return to her room, its head cocked, looking towards the door. In a sleepy stupor, unable to be shaken her from her trance, Alma could only shake her head and back away from the doll. “Then suddenly she gasps like she can’t breathe and we try to help but she just chokes and chokes.” Brother Horne hands a towel to his son, who brings it to his mother in the bathroom. “That’s what happens,” Brother Horne shivers. “And she coughs up water. I didn’t know what else to do but ask for a blessing.” He stops and looks at you, his face devoid of color. Pallid. they still haven’t turned on the lights and the sun is long gone. Your phone shines through your shirt pocket. You stop working on the towel placement, hands moving to your pockets, where your keys press against your leg. The plumber still hasn’t arrived. “Where is she?” He brings you to her room where she sits upright on the bed, in the dark, and you wish you hadn’t asked. The doll is in her lap, and it mirrors Alma, shadows darkening half their porcelain faces. You take your keys from your pocket and fumble to find the oil attached to the chain. You start unscrewing the cap and approaching the bed. Alma glares up at you beneath thick eyelashes. The doll is squeezed in her little fists– knuckles white. You sprinkle a few drops of oil in her hair and put your keys away. You place your fingers on the top of her head, but she isn’t warm. She cold as death. Before you close your eyes and pray, you double check you’re touching the daughter, not the doll. The blessing is quick and you command by the power of the Priesthood, which you hold, for the daughter, Alma Susanne Horne, to stop allowing the Satan to come to her in the night, to cast away the influence of evil, and to stop the dreams and the sleepwalking. You pray for her soul to heal and peace for her whole family. You say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen. The doll falls face first into the comforter. Alma blinks and tears gush from her eyes. She is silent and shaking. A knock at the front door and the doorbell ringing jars everyone from the solemn blessing, and you shove the Bible under your arm before snatching the doll. The father runs from the room to the front door, and you hear him talking. The plumber– of course. You shake hands with Sister Horne, pat the daughter on the head, and leave their home quickly, the doll crushed under your arm. The Bible is the barrier between the doll and your chest. The doll is burned in a pit in your backyard. You dig the hole quickly, peering over your shoulder at the thing staring you down, watching you dig its grave. The soil is packed and you have to break through the sod you placed a year ago when you filled in the pool. You feel the doll’s eyes creeping along your back, boring into your skin, wishing it was with Alma and hating you for taking her away. Just like you’d threatened to take your son away from your ex-wife when she said her thoughts were getting darker and darker. The doll’s face doesn’t melt. The fire can’t get hot enough. The knitted and stuffed body is engulfed immediately, but the face stays intact. As you peer into the flickering flames, your heart stops. There are your ex-wife’s eyes staring up at you, among the flames. You scramble for the hose, something to subdue the flames, but you slip in the grass and when you finally start the water and get the hose back to the pit, the flames have already puttered out. But the face remains, the cracked left eye distinguishable. You smash it with your boot and cover the whole thing with dirt. You can’t help but laugh at the irony: you thought you’d gotten rid of this thing, your ex-wife’s thing, and yet here it is buried with her. Travis, from the Mahoney family is next. You’d hoped Alma would be it, but Sister Mahoney finds you Wednesday night while Travis sulks in the corner of the gym. His peers run wildly, chasing a basketball after youth night. After Sunday, you’re unsettled but not afraid, but that itching behind your eye is starting to get annoying. It’s when you close your eyes as you blink, or when you try to sleep; like there’s dirt in the back of your eye socket and youcan’t quite reach it. Apparently, they also went to the second-hand store downtown. The same place you donated the doll among other personal items of your ex-wife and son. This time, it’s a raggedy brown dog with matted ears that droop and engulf his face. It obvious immediately:it’syour son’s toy dog.The one he suckled the ears on as a baby. The one whose eyes were black pits. You avoid looking at them but notice Travis has the same black eyes. You focus your attention on Sister Mahoney, who points at him. “He won’t let it go, it doesn’t make sense,” she begins, pulling at her hair, twisting it tightly around her pointer finger until it turns red, then purple, before she unfurls it and starts again. “It’s more than nightmares.” She looks into your eyes; hers are bloodshot. “And it stinks like mildew.” Spit spews from her lips and her finger goes white from lack of blood. “Come to my office,” you beckon, but wait as she pulls Travis up, wobbling on his feet. They follow you down the dark hall, the lights switched off. They should be on a motion sensor. You know the way despite the dark. This is your second home, after all. In the past year, you prefer being here, alone, in your office, later and later into the evening. The door is unlocked. You always keep it unlocked, but when you usher in Sister Mahoney and her son– clasping the dank dog between his arms– you lock everyone in. “Sit,” you point to the plastic chair, but Travis doesn’t respond. He just stares at the floor, swaying. Sister Mahoney pushes him forward and he stumbles, falling onto the chair. You dig around in your pocket, pulling out your keys and unscrewing the oil. You sprinkle a few drops on his head and bury your fingers in his hair. “By the power of the Priesthood which I hold,” you begin and Travis fidgets under your touch. “I command for this boy, Travis Clayton Mahoney, to be healed, for his mind to be soothed,” and you command the devil or whatever is within that doll, to be cast out. To leave the boy alone. To end the torment and the nightmares. The authority of your voice eases Sister Mahoney’s furrowed brows but not your own. “I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” Sister Mahoney looks up at you, blinking away tears. Travis coughs, spits, throws up clear liquid, then drops the dog into the vomit. After a moment, Sister Mahoney collects herself, snatches her son, and flees the office, telling you to just throw the dog away. Your son’s dog. You pick it up, dripping, and hold it at a distance, pinched by a matted ear. The dog too is burned in your backyard, adjacent to your ex-wife’s doll. You know her eyes are there, beneath the dirt, looking up at you through the soil. You shiver despite the fire eating away the dog. Plastic hair burns black and the stench of burnt rubber creeps into your nose. You let it burn until the flames die down, then you turn to grab the hose. When you return, it is not the dog which lay in the pit, smoldering. They are the eyes of your son– black pits devoid of life. Just like the last time you saw them; when they couldn’t blink anymore. The hose sputters and you douse the flames, drowning the eyes. You cover them in dirt, praying you won’t ever see them again. That night you have a nightmare of your own: one of those dreams where your arms are glued to the bed and only your eyes can move side to side. And you know the door is opening and something crawls through. It’s a new doll, but one you’ve never seen. Larger than the first, and you strain your eyes to see the fabric hands, fingerless, curl around your mattress. Your head is locked in place. Of course it is. The top of its head is engulfed in brown braids and dirt smudges its face. One hand rubs away the soil, polishing the plastic eyes. Your eyes. You know them; they’ve stared at you blankly in the mirror every day since she drowned herself and your son, and you burned and buried their waterlogged corpses in the pool. Their colorless faces imprint in your mind: their gray skin when you’d pulled them from the pool; their eyes that stayed open when you shook their ragdoll bodies. Was living with you really so bad that she had to escape like that? You, a father dictated by God. Her, a mother driven to madness. Yours, a church which ignores misery. You’d threatened to take your son and leave; she’d said horrible things. The next day she did that. Youfinally turn your head, but as soon as you do the doll with your eyes is gone. A knock startles you from bed. You throw on a plain shirt and athletic shorts, wrinkled from weeks without washing or folding. A mother and daughter stand at your front door. As you stare at the strangers across the threshold, sweat glistens along your hairline and gooseflesh pricks your skin. Behind the girl– another doll. This one is huge. As tall as the little girl, but she holds it by its brown braided hair, and it lays face down on the pavement. The girl is small, but the doll is so big. You focus on the mother. “They told me you could help,” and you know who she’s talking about. Brother Horne, or Sister Mahoney, or anyone else from church who they may have spoken to. They talk. Something is rotting in this town. Is it you? “Please,” you open the door, and they come inside. You slip your keys off the hook by the door and slide them into your pocket. The girl tugs the doll by its hair, face dragging against the carpet. They bring in a chill you ignore, but the sweat on your face cools and you shiver. It’sthedoll. The one with your eyes. Even though you can’t see them, you know they’re yours. For the first time in your life, you wish you had a cigarette to steady your hands. Or a strong drink. Would that steady them? They sit on the couch in your living room. Now that the doll is sitting up, beside the girl, you see clearly they are your eyes. Gray, devoid of life. It’s horrible to look at the huge thing. The girl clasps the doll’s hand and kicks its foot. You focus on the mother, hoping she will speak, but she’s silent after introducing who they are. Friends of the Mahoneys. Yes. She said you could bless Sally here, that the Priesthood comes from God and you are the Bishop. The most powerful Priesthood holder of the church. You wish you were sitting as your knees knock together. “We walk at night,” Sally speaks finally. A chill washes over you. “We watch mommy.” The mother stifles a gasp and looks away. “Why?” You ask. Sally doesn’t reply but a smile creeps across her face, crinkling her eyes. The doll’s knitted mouth seems to turn up as well, doesn’t it? A voice, not Sally’s, speaks inside your head. We watch you from Hell. Is it your own? Your hand twitches toward your pocket, where your keys bulge. There, the oil. After the dog in your office, you blessed the oil again and restocked the tiny container while paper towels sopped up Travis’s mess. You had a feeling in the pit of your stomach this would happen again. Maybe God was speaking to you. You summon courage with a deep breath and pull out the oil. It finds your fingers easily, and you stand, approaching her. Sally glares up at you as you sprinkle a few drops on her hair, pause, add a few more, then spin the lid closed. Your fingers fidget on her scalp as you begin. You ask her mother for her middle and last name to begin the blessing. “By the power of the Priesthood which I hold, I command for this girl, Sally Lee Jones, to be healed, for her mind to be soothed,” you feel the girl shift on the couch, pulling her legs into crisscross, “and I cast out whatever demon resides in this doll and has been haunting me–” but searing pain forces your eyes open and ceases the blessing. The girl has lunged forward and sunk her teeth into your unprotected thigh. You shout but can’t curse. The mother is transfixed, immobile, horror darkening her face which is clasped between two hands. Everything is gray. Color blind or in Hell? You push Sally off, continuing the blessing in your head as you struggle for the doll. “Please, God, forgive me,” and you pull her by her hair, jerking her head to the side so she lets go of the doll. She fluidly pushes off the couch to lunge forward, little hands grabbing, but you sidestep and flee to the backyard. Sally scrabbles after you on all fours. You don’t bother digging a hole. You dump the gasoline for your lawnmower directly onto the doll’s face and flick a match toward it. Its face blooms with flame. Before you realize it, Sally has flung herself onto the doll and into the flames. The mother screeches as you try to pull Sally from the flames and shake the doll from her grasp, but your fingers burn so you drop her. The flames devour her clothing and suddenly she’s a ball of fire. The mother’s wails build to a catastrophic strain which rings dully in your ears and blots out the sound of her burning, screaming child. The mother is upon you, hitting, scratching, spitting at your back. Sally writhes in the dirt, among the ashes of the other dolls. The mother’s song grows shrill, and she falls to the ground, taking off her shirt to whip at the flames. You stand and watch her desperately try to save her child, to extend her life, to not let the flames consume her body and soul in one fiery breath. But it’s too late. It’s obviously too late and you do nothing. The mother manages to stop most flames, but when she tries to pry the doll from Sally’s arms, they’ve melted together and the tearing peels the remaining bits of her clothes and skin off too and you turn away. Your legs move you to your bedroom, where you’ve left your phone on the nightstand. You call the police to give them your address and explain what happened, and you hang up despite prompting for you to stay on the line. Only then do you realize your leg is bleeding and the trickling blood tickles your leg hairs. Outside, the mother’s ballad crescendos and dies. You go to the front porch and wait for the ambulance. The fire truck arrives first, but you assure them the fire is out, though you haven’t been back there to check. You apologize for lighting a fire in the city and guide them through the house and through the glass back door. What else can you say? Who’d believe you if you said your eyes were haunting you? If their eyes were too? They rush to the mother, leaving you standing inside the threshold. They pick up the child, checking for a pulse, pulling the mother aside and wiping her face. One man wraps a blanket around her bare shoulders. The police arrive and don’t leave even after they take the woman and her child away in the back of a screaming ambulance. They sit you down and ask questions about where your wife has been the past year. And what about your son? Did they flee the state? Her family hasn’t heard from her. Why haven’t you reported them missing? You wonder how hot Hell burns as you ask for a lawyer and let them guide you into the back of a silent police car. Whitney McClelland is a tenth-grade English teacher to support her fictional writing career. She is also a creative writing master's student at Stephen F. Austin State University in East Texas. She has won second place in SFA’s Piney Dark Horror Writing Competition in October 2023, and published a flash fiction piece in Drunk Monkeys Pop Culture Issue of 2024.
by Whitney McClelland
River Horse Magical Realism By Caleb James Stewart
The man didn’t care much for his son. And no, it was not because his son was a hippopotamus. Many children were now born as various animals, and that was just a part of life that most had accepted. And no, it was not because his son had this annoying habit of asking his father how his day had gone. It was simply because the man never wanted to have a child. This was one of those unfortunate side effects of marriage. When the hippopotamus son would come home from elementary school, the man would wonder what a hippopotamus could learn and whether a hippopotamus could go to a boarding school. He found an article about a dolphin child that had gone to a private school with top marks, but this did not seem common for most animal children. Despite his feelings about his hippopotamus son, the man just kept his nose down and tried his best to ignore him. That is, until the fishing trip. Having been scheduled behind the man’s back by the man’s wife, and subsequently been put on the man’s calendar as a “business meeting,” the man had no chance to get out of this father-son bonding time. “But dear,” the man argued that Saturday morning, “I do not care at all about fishing.” “But our son does,” the man’s wife responded, “I think it will be a good time for the two of you.” The hippopotamus son stood behind the two wearing blue overalls, black boots, and a large smile while carrying a fishing pole. His father’s smile. It seemed ridiculous to the man. How could a hippopotamus fish? Even upright, the hippopotamus didn’t have perfect digits. The man, seeing no way out of this, took his son to the lake, bought bait and a large hat for himself, and rented a boat and fishing pole. Already, the lake was full of fishermen of all ages on the water. The man would not pay for a motorboat, so he rowed carefully as his hippopotamus son looked all around the lake. The man himself searched the lake to see if any other animal children were there. There were quite a few, but what surprised him was the animal adults that sat in their various boats laughing with each other and drinking beers. When they finally got out to a point in the lake where no one else was, the man pulled up the oars and began casting out the line. The man was terrible at fishing, but it allowed him to sit in the quiet and to tell his hippopotamus son, “Fisherman must be quiet to catch fish,” anytime his hippopotamus son wished to speak with him. Around midday, the sun beat down on the two and it was time to stop for lunch. The man pulled out two sandwiches, a ham and cheese for the man, and a BLT without the bacon for the hippopotamus son. “Son,” the man said, “Here’s your sandwich.” “Just a minute, Father,” the hippopotamus son stated as he cast out his line again. The man rolled his eyes and pulled his sandwich out of the plastic baggie and took a bite. Just then, the hippopotamus son was fighting against the fishing pole, trying his hardest to reel it in. “Father!” the hippopotamus son shouted, “I got something.” “Good for you,” the man responded blandly. The hippopotamus son fought hard against the line, showing an incredible level of skill that the man was unaware of. Which is why the man was also surprised when suddenly the line snapped, and the hippopotamus son, having been leaning back against the pressure of the fishing line, fell into the water. “Son!” the father said with surprising fear. Surprising to him, that is. He dropped his sandwich, processed bread, meat, and cheese scattering in a concentrated area. He leaned over the side of the boat, looking down across the water. The father searched and searched the water, fear sitting deep in his stomach with each air bubble that came up from the water. My hippopotamus son has been under water too long. He’s drowning. Should I go in and save him? Suddenly, the water broke, and the hippopotamus son’s head poked out the water, smiling. “Father,” the hippopotamus son said, “I finally caught one!” He held up a wriggling fish out of the water and laughed. It was a laugh the father hadn’t heard from his hippopotamus son in a long time. And the man laughed too, pulling his son out of the water. His son was heavy, but with a little leverage he was able to get him into the boat, the two breathing heavily. “I didn’t know you were a good swimmer,” he said to his son. “Well, Father, I am a hippopotamus,” the hippopotamus son commented, taking his BLT without bacon and munching down on it. “Yes, Son, you are.” Caleb James Stewart is a recent graduate of the English/Creative Writing program at Stephen F. Austin State University. He has been featured in the literary journal HUMID, Gingerbread House, Penumbra, and is a past winner of the Piney Dark horror story contest.
It was a twisted, gnarled thing: the not-tree, standing among the towering pines as though it belonged, but now like a maypole it stood, three meters tall, with five pairs of worried eyes fixed on its pale bark and on the lifeless human hand that seemed to reach out from the mangled wood. Renato, a giant of a man with arms like barrels and shoulders twice as wide, was the first of the five to approach the thing, axe in hand. The autumn leaves crunched beneath his logger’s boots like bug carcasses and seemed the loudest sound in the forest. The men were quiet around him. “Jesus,” he whispered with a tentative reach toward the hand sprouting from the tree, but before he could make contact, the carpet of leaves on the ground rustled and a pale hand snatched his brown one by the wrist. “Don’t touch it!” He turned to see his old friend and former professor, Lawrence, a wiry botanist who—against the others’ recommendations—had accompanied the group on their clandestine forest getaway. “Who found this?” Renato asked, pivoting in his crouched position. “I did,” was the response, and a young man in his thirties took a step forward, his hands in his pockets. Renato struggled to remember his name—Carl—and his eyebrows furrowed, casting a shadow over his dark eyes. Renato didn’t know Carl. He knew his friend, Jesse, who had insisted that Carl come, as it was he who had provided the trailer for the job. “What were you doing so far from base?” “Going for a walk. Seeing what we’re working with. Some of us want to get paid for this job, believe it or not, and we don’t get paid for selling rotten wood. What, is taking a walk illegal now?” “There’s no need for that, now,” Lawrence said. “The man was just curious.” He pulled on a thick pair of brown gloves and moved a vine from where it lay draped across the stiff fingers. Carl didn’t respond, but merely pulled a box of cigarettes and a matchbook from his pocket and lit himself a smoke. Renato resisted the urge to point out that they had a botanist who could tell them whether the wood was rotten—he trusted Larry’s opinion, and so should the others—and instead kept his mouth shut. He turned back to Lawrence. “Anything, Doc?” Beside him, Lawrence pushed his round glasses up his nose. “I hate to say it, my friend, but my business is botany, not science fiction.” He looked at his friend, taking a more serious tone. “Unless I analyze a sample, I can’t form a scientific opinion.” Renato stood and took a step back from the tree. It wasn’t hurting anyone as it was, he said—though Lawrence argued that they would be remiss if they didn’t at least call in an anonymous tip. The rest agreed that they would place a call once their job was done. The five men returned to ‘base’—a halfway-dilapidated cabin that had been uninhabited for a year—and a staleness hung in the air that dampened the mood, but conversation ensued nonetheless as evening turned to night. They tried to forget the botanical marvel that stood a stone’s throw away from the tightly latched front door. As Lawrence sorted through what supplies he had brought, the others broke into the necessary discussion of what they had come to do and how much they would be paid. Renato straddled the back of a wooden chair and picked at his fingernails as Jesse and Carl shared a cigarette. Mackey, a recent college graduate and the youngest of the five, took notes in a legal pad: at roughly one-hundred and fifty dollars per thousand board feet, each of them would earn about thirty-five dollars per pine, not including Lawrence, who had insisted that he accompany the group out of mere scientific curiosity. He didn’t want any part of their illicit operation, he had assured them, which was fine by Renato; it was a man’s own business whether or not he wanted to get paid. “I came up to this area a couple months ago,” Carl began in a casual tone, each word punctuated with a puff of cigarette smoke from his mouth. He said that he’d found a nasty wreck on the side of the road: five environmentalists in one vehicle. “State police showed up about an hour later,” he added with another drag and handed his cigarette to Jesse, who listened silently beside him, the corners of his mouth tightening into what looked to be a smile he was fighting. “Had to tell ‘em I already buried them.” “Mackey looked away from his notes, his dark eyes wide. “You buried them? Why?” “Well, they were dead.” “All five of them?” Carl took the cigarette back from Jesse. “Well, two of ‘em said they weren’t, but you know how them environmentalists like to lie.” Jesse erupted. He clutched his stomach as Renato covered his face to hide his smile. Mackey’s shoulders shook as well. “Heathens, all four of you,” Lawrence called from the kitchen in a stern voice as he examined his equipment where it lay displayed neatly on the counter. Jesse bit back: “Since you’re such a tree hugger, why don’t you go and get intimate with that specimen out there? I’m sure it’s lonely,” he joked, though now his friend was no longer smiling. “Maybe it’ll be the first one we cut down. Carl, you can—” Jesse’s voice ceased with a choked noise as Carl’s hand flew to his throat, gripping his neck until his knuckles were white. Renato straightened and looked between the two, unsure if they were joking. “Carl...?” No response. Carl’s stare remained on the floor while Jesse struggled, scrambling to escape from his friend’s grip. His face had begun to turn red. A cacophony of yelling erupted as Carl calmly stood, dragging his friend upward by the neck with incredible strength. Renato rushed toward the two as Mackey backed away toward the kitchen where Lawrence still stood, dumbstruck. Renato grabbed Carl’s hand, trying to pry his fingers away from Jesse’s throat. He could feel the flesh peel away and gather beneath his fingernails as he and Jesse both clawed at the crushing grip. Carl finally released the hold and doubled over, groaning with a voice that was not his own. Jesse collapsed to the floor. As the Carl-thing brought its hands to its face, clawing at its cheeks, a thick golden fluid began to ooze from the corners of its eyes. It screamed, and it was an inhuman scream—One Renato knew he would never banish from his mind. “Axe!” Renato pointed to where it lay on the other side of the room. Lawrence moved to grab it as the coat covering Carl’s torso began to writhe and undulate, the skin of his exposed hands and face warping and stretching as if something beneath it were trying to escape. “Larry,hit it!” Renato cried, but Lawrence remained rooted to the rotting floor, clutching the axe to his chest as another screech tore itself from Carl’s throat. In one manic stride, Renato ripped the axe from Lawrence’s grasp, let the handle slide through his palms, and brought the blade down in a deadly arc. The axe head ripped through the air again, and again, and again—a fatal spiral of carnage as the repeated impact sent sprays of red across the room. Only when what remained of Carl was a pulpy, crimson mess did Renato cease the rhythm he had established, letting the axe fall to the floor with a wet thud that shook the rotted wood beneath him. The only sounds in the cabin were the men’s panicked breathing and the reflexive twitching and thumping of the mangled remains. Jesse clutched his bruised neck, crawling backward from the widening red puddle. “We have to bury him,” he rasped. Lawrence swallowed and shook his head, his eyes trained on the ruined floor, unwavering yet unfocused. “No,” he began, working through a stutter. “No, if we bury him, we’re planting him. Could cause problems.” “Then what do we...” Jesse stood over what used to be his friend, staring into the steaming pile of plant matter and gore. “What do we do?” The others were silent, looking to Lawrence for the answer: “We need to burn him.” He turned to Renato, his hands wringing themselves white against his chest and his blue eyes empty. Mirthless. Haunted. “Fertilizer,” he said simply, but Renato understood. “Or- or flour. Anything flammable should do.” Before Renato dispatched himself to fulfil Lawrence’s request, he reached for his friend’s glasses, removing them when Lawrence didn’t react. Four droplets of blood had dried on the lenses, and Renato carefully wiped them with his shirt until they were clean and handed them back to Lawrence, who slowly accepted them. “Thank you.” Mackey and Jesse were saddled with the unpleasant job of gathering what remained of Carl into a sheet. Lawrence recommended that they move the remains outside, far from the trees, where the men could safely host an impromptu cremation without the danger of inciting a wildfire. In the dusty, rotting cabinet beneath the sink—behind mildewy bottles of drain cleaner, herbicide, and other unlabeled bottles—Renato found a bag of fertilizer. Years of moisture and rot had eaten away at the cotton bag, but the crystals inside seemed undamaged. Once all was done, the men stood outside in a grim semicircle around a bloodied sheet vaguely resembling a human shape. Renato stepped forward, tipping the bag of fertilizer and dumping the contents over the fabric and scattering the crystalline pebbles. Lawrence stood with a fire extinguisher in hand and tried to look anywhere else. “Lighter?” Renato said roughly in Jesse’s direction. Wordlessly, Jesse pulled a hand from his pocket, and when Renato reached forward, Jesse dropped Carl’s matchbook into his palm. Renato shined his flashlight at the thin cardboard, making out the slightly faded words: Loomis Truck Lines Inc. He removed one of the matches, struck it, and threw it onto the lifeless pile of carnage. The shroud ignited immediately. Flames engulfed the remains, and the wet mass crackled under the heat. A foul smell flooded the men’s senses, but none complained. They simply watched as someone they once knew went up in smoke before them. Every man wanted to fill the silence, yet there was nothing to say. “Larry,” Renato began, staring at the blaze. “I think it’s time to get your scientific opinion on that tree out there.” “I was thinking the same,” Lawrence replied, his eyes not on the burning pile, but on the bright orange smoke as it rose into the sky and obscured the stars from view. No one slept that night. Renato could hear Lawrence’s muffled voice resonating through the wall separating the living room from the bedroom-turned-laboratory where Lawrence analyzed a sample from the tree-thing. “I told him not to bring that damned tape recorder,” Renato said to Mackey from the couch. “The man doesn’t know the definition of subtlety.” Mackey sat next to the window, looking into the dark forest. “I guess we’re way past subtlety right now,” he murmured, but he was silenced with a harsh shush. “Is that a chainsaw?” The men listened—soon enough, they could hear a distant buzzing followed by the shrill screech of a saw against wood. Renato rushed to the window, squeezing next to Mackey and peering through the rotting curtains. After several seconds, Renato spotted Jesse’s red overcoat peeking through the dark between the tree trunks. “The tree,” Mackey said simply, giving voice to the silent fear. The screech of the chainsaw continued. And Renato moved away from the curtains and toward where his coat lay on the back of the leather sofa. The thick fabric rustled as he donned it and approached the door. “I’ll get him.” Renato stepped outside. A scent like sweetness weaved between the forest pillars, and a great groan and a deafening snap echoed across the acreage: the final death rattle as a pine crashed to the mossy carpet with a slowness that betrayed its size. Dust and pollen flew in clouds from the ground and from the needles that snapped from their branches when the tree landed, too quiet, between its upright family members. Jesse turned from the mangled stump—the first one felled since they arrived—and his eyes glinted behind the bill of his hat as he glanced at his visitor. “You come to check on me?” “Just came to get some fresh air,” Renato said, his hand still gripping the end of the axe handle. His breath painted the air white. “And you?” “Like Carl said,” Jesse began, the detritus in the air pulling a harsh cough from his chest. “Some of us want to get paid, and if none of you’s gonna man up and do the job, I will.” Despite everything, Jesse laughed, though there was no humor in it. He removed one hand from the heavy saw and let the chain drag against the leaves. He stared at the mangled stump. “What the hell happened to him?” “I don’t know.” “It was like he was a different person, man. One minute, he was himself, and then—” “I know.” For a long, leaden moment, the two men were silent. With a swift brush of sawdust and pollen from his feathery hair, Renato let his axe slip through his fingers, and the metal head landed on the ground with a soft thump. He leaned the handle against a nearby fir. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s cold as shit out here.” “No,” Jesse said, hardly letting Renato finish speaking. He shook his head, looking away. “No, I can’t be in there. I won’t.” He was silent for another moment before turning back to Renato, moving his hands in an aimless wave through the air. “What if we called someone? The police, or a fire department, or... just someone who can help. We gotta tell someone.” “There’s a phone in the kitchen. Be my guest.” At Renato’s reply, Jesse glanced toward the cabin, obviously still apprehensive at the idea of stepping back inside. “But if you wanna get paid,” Renato continued, crossing his arms, “we’re calling no one.” A crash came from base before Jesse could respond. Wordlessly, the two neb looked at the cabin and back to each other before bolting toward the source of the commotion. Renato heard the yelling before he shoved open the door. When he entered, a white blur flew toward him and shattered against the wall next to his head. Blue willow shards ricocheted across the room. “Get away from me!” Another shatter. “He’s trying to make me like him!” Lawrence stood in the junction between the hallway and the living room, at odds with Mackey, who was in the corner to Renato’s left, flush with the wall and shielding his face with his arms. Lawrence held the fire extinguisher in both hands, ready to strike, if necessary. “Easy, Larry,” Renato reached out a hand. “We’re all freaking out. It’s okay. I have a friend out in Cave Junction; he can be here in the morning. We’ll call him and—” “No!” Larry screamed, and with a quick turn of his head toward where the phone hung on the wall, he swung the fire extinguisher upwards and against it, sending a cacophony of green plastic shards echoing through the cabin as he hit it again and again. Once his onslaught ceased, he stared at the others, his chest heaving. “Nobody is calling anyone. And no one is leaving.” The men were silent as they picked apart Lawrence’s statement, and Renato heard a swear from Jesse as he and Mackey ran past Lawrence and through the back door to where the truck and trailer were parked. Only Renato and Lawrence remained in the house. “Lawrence—” Renato began, but he stopped when his friend pulled a revolver from his pocket. Despite Lawrence’s trembling, Renato could peer into the darkness of the barrel, the polished metal glinting in the light as the bulb in the ceiling flickered. Renato took one slow step toward Lawrence and the older man lifted his hand, firing once into the ceiling. Renato stilled. “Don’t come near me, Renato.” “I won’t.” He held out a hand. “Give me the gun, Lawrence. I know you don’t want anyone else to die tonight.” “But they will,” Lawrence said. With a tentative step toward his friend, Renato carefully continued his reach. “But you don’t have to be the one to make it happen.” Lawrence’s blue eyes glanced between Renato’s own brown ones, and a sigh shook through the man as he lowered the revolver, gently placing it into Renato’s hand. Moving slowly, Renato placed the gun in the pocket of his coat before raising both hands. “See?” Lawrence thought for a moment, then nodded and stepped aside. Renato left the cabin, and when he reached the vehicle, he remembered the snap he had heard moments ago when the tree fell. A single bullet hole graced the side of the truck, and Renato looked down at the puddle of gasoline smothering the orange leaves. He stepped to the side, looking under the raised hood and into the mangled guts of the truck. White powder covered every available crevice—the radiator, the oil filter, the coolant tank— and Renato drew a line in the substance with a single finger. Flour. Fuck. “I’ll kill him.” Renato turned to see Jesse staring at him. “I’m going to kill him.” Jesse’s body began to convulse. His hands clenched into fists. A thick cough— a single pink flower petal fell from Jesse’s lips to the ground. Somehow, it was happening again. Mackey bolted into the dark woods, leaving Renato alone with what was taking over Jesse. Renato fumbled for his pocket as Jesse turned toward the cabin, and with a shaky hand he lifted Lawrence’s revolver and fired. The gunshot echoed between the trees. Jesse stopped. But he didn’t fall. Instead, he turned back to face Renato, and green slime oozed from the exit wound in his cheek. He began to slowly close the distance, coughing up more petals as he approached. Renato fired again, and Jesse continued his approach. “Shit,” he whispered, and—getting an idea— he scooped up a handful of the flour before chucking it at Jesse. Half a moment later, he fumbled for a match, lit one, and threw it at the approaching creature. Jesse erupted. A wave of heat hit Renato and a screech like Carl’s flew from the walking pillar of fire, and the leaves beneath it began to burn as it eventually crumpled to the ground in a smoking, crackling blaze. Renato wasted no time sprinting back to base, ignoring Lawrence where he sat on the couch and instead ran to the temporary laboratory. The room was mostly untouched, but on the table next to his microscope sat his tape recorder. Renato approached it, rewound the tape for a few seconds, and pressed play with a quiet click of the button. Much of what Lawrence had to say was botanical jargon, but some made sense: An extraterrestrial fungus that adapts to a host’s personality and appearance. Transmittable through body fluid. Matures into a sapling when planted. He had gotten his answers. Renato’s feet dragged as he exited the room and entered Lawrence’s line of sight. The doctor had removed his heavy coat. Blue eyes met brown, and they stared for a moment. It was just the two of them now. The doctor spoke first. “Mackey?” “He ran.” “I see,” Lawrence said simply. Renato shuffled toward the couch and slumped next to his friend. “Doctor,” he began before reiterating: “Larry, what did you find in that tree?” “You heard what I found, my friend.” Lawrence shook his head and tears filled his eyes. He clutched his chest. “I thought it was bad, Ren—I thought it was really bad— but now I know it isn’t. It just wants to live. Like you and I do.” With a straightening of his spine, Renato leaned away from his friend. “What do you mean?” “It’s incredible,” Lawrence whispered, continuing to paw at his chest. “An extraterrestrial life form. You won’t believe it until you feel it.” As his left hand grasped at his shirt, his right reached forward— for Renato. With a swift duck backwards, Renato escaped Lawrence’s reach. Unthinking, he pulled the revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Lawrence’s head. He didn’t hear the gunshot. All he could do was stare at the hole in his friend’s head as his friend stared wide-eyed back. Crimson leaked out, and Lawrence fell to his knees, still looking at Renato as he crumpled to the floor. There was no screeching. No flower petals. No green ooze. He was simply dead. Denial flooded Renato’s senses, and he refused to give license to what he already knew as he wiped his forehead, halting when he heard the doorknob rattle. He stumbled over the still-warm body and shoved his weight against the door, shutting his eyes against the scratching at the wood. As he pulled down the latch, he reached for the couch and dragged it backward until its weight held shut the trembling entrance. Back door. Grabbing the wooden chair, he ran to prop the chair’s back beneath the back door’s metal knob. Renato darted back to the kitchen, fumbling for the telephone, but he halted when he reached the wall— all that remained was a shattered shell of green plastic, the cracked handset dangling by its cord several inches above where the rotary dial and other mechanical entrails lay scattered on the floor. Renato’s hovering hands clenched into fists and his eyes closed—a moment to collect himself—before he dove to the floor in front of the sink. Weed killer. Flour. A half-bag of fertilizer. With a sweep of his arm, he scooped the contents under the sink onto the floor and scrambled to carry them to the counter top. He stood trembling for a moment, his hands on the counter, before his eyes landed on the bottle of herbicide. He knew what he had to do. He needed to know. Taking the herbicide into his hand, he unscrewed the top, looked into the depths of the bottle for a moment, and tipped it upside down, letting the contents drain into his open mouth. He allowed himself a single swallow of the putrid fluid before he spat the rest onto the floor, the acrid limestone flavor pervading his senses and sending a wave of nausea crashing over him. No pain— no writhing— just plain nausea. Thank God, he thought before promptly heaving into the sink. After that, he was a hurricane. He doused the hallway with herbicide. He threw piles of flour onto the wet, rotting walls, the powder sticking to the poison as it dripped to the floor. He shook the remaining fertilizer onto the front threshold, leading a line of the flammable crystals just inside the doorway to the laboratory. He slammed shut the door and sat at Larry’s table, a match at the ready. With a click of Lawrence’s revolver, he glanced into the exposed cylinder. One bullet. He thought for a moment before turning, pointed the gun at Lawrence’s tape recorder, and fired. The machine sparked as it died. He glanced over; next to the ruined recorder sat two bottles he hadn’t seen before: an extra bottle of weed killer, and a glass bottle of Tennessee whiskey. Larry, you dog. He’d come prepared after all. He leaned over, took the bottle in hand, and poured the whiskey into a dusty mug, topping it off with a mouthful’s worth of herbicide. He twirled his hand, watched the clear liquid churn against the sides of the coffee-stained mug until the bubbles swirled to the bottom in a poison whirlpool, and lit the match. J. S. Couch, 24, is a poetry and fiction writer from Nacogdoches, Texas. A fan of historical fiction and the British Romantic poets, he is pursuing his Master's degree in English and Creative Writing at Stephen F. Austin State University. His work has appeared in ECHO Review and in HUMID Literary Magazine, and when he isn't writing, he can be found playing Dungeons & Dragons or spending time with his cat, Mary.
By J. S. Couch
Men Enough to Face the Darkness Horror/Sci-Fi
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www.thegenresociety.com submissions@thegenresociety.com The Genre Society
It was a twisted, gnarled thing: the not-tree,, standing among the towering pines as though it belonged,, but now like a maypole it stood,, three meters tall,, with five pairs of worried eyes fixed on its pale bark and on the lifeless human hand that seemed to reach out from the mangled wood. "Men enough to face the darkness" -J.S. Couch
Images obtained via Unsplash through Marq
This Debut Issue Features: Rachael Krygsman's "Purple Dream," "Listen to Your Mother," and "Belly Up," a collection of speculative poetry examining the mundane horrors of life and love. Jayvian Kibble's "The Price of a Green-Thumb," a magical yet horrific short tale of a family who pays a heavy price for fertility. Whitney McClelland's "Burned and Buried," a religious horror wherein a Bishop must reckon with the sins of his past when a haunting invades his church. Caleb James Stewart's "River Horse," a hilarious magical realism flash fiction which contemplates fatherhood and bonding with your child. J.S. Couch's "Men Enough to Face the Darkness," a vivid sci-fi horror blend that immerses you in the piney woods and the terrors hidden among those trees.
