Issue 3
January 2025
Genre Society
The
The Genre Society
Issue 3 January 2025 Published by Whitney Mcclelland www.whitneythewriter.com
Image Credit: KELLEPICS from pixabay, Josue Velasquez from Pexels, PhotoVision from pixabay, Pezibear from pixabay
Cover art "Lycanthropy" created by Vincenzo Cohen
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Table of Contents
Let us leave 2024 behind and embrace the new year with some lovely writing. I will not dwell on resolutions either, and yet I hope you, dear reader, will stick around and continue to watch this magazine grow. I continue to be impressed by all the amazing fiction and poetry submitted via Duotrope. If only I could accept and publish more! (But alas, as a high school teacher and graduate student finishing this spring, I am a bit too busy to expand this magazine larger than it already is!) I cannot do this without you readers and writers, and please, if you are not already signed up for the newsletter and follow our Facebook page, sign up now! These are the best ways to get reminders of calls for submissions and updates on the magazine publishing schedule. Lastly, please help us spread the word. Starting a magazine from the ground up with no audience is difficult. I want these lovely works to be read as much as they deserve. Share, comment on, and like the Facebook page. Head over to thegenresociety.com to sign up for the newsletter which only comes out quarterly annoucing the new publication. I don't have time to email everyone constantly. (I take too many naps.) I truly do love this little magazine, and take great pleasure in reading, designing, and publishing these great works. I hope reading it brings you a similar joy. Have a great new year, and thank you again for reading. Enjoy Genre Lovers, -Whitney McClelland Editor and Publisher
by author
Letter From the Editor ......................................................................................................................................... 5 Poetry Flawed .................................................................................................................................................................... 6 oocyte...................................................................................................................................................................... 7 Ambassador of Numb ........................................................................................................................................... 7 Susan Scutti PARANIOA ............................................................................................................................................................. 8 A MIND OF ONE'S OWN ....................................................................................................................................... 10 ANNIHILATION ...................................................................................................................................................... 11 Devayani Anvekar Condemned as a Witch ....................................................................................................................................... 12 The Betrayal of Old Bones ................................................................................................................................... 13 What She's Made Of ............................................................................................................................................ 14 Deborah Bailey Digidreams ........................................................................................................................................................... 15 Cowfolk ................................................................................................................................................................. 16 The Newly Dead ................................................................................................................................................... 16 A J Dalton Fiction Torn Throat........................................................................................................................................................... 17 Rebecca Buchanan The Bad Boy of Beef Lake .................................................................................................................................... 19 Ryan Kittleman Los Obras de Los Angeles .................................................................................................................................... 24 J. Michael Hayes Famous Monster Rejections (No. 9) .................................................................................................................... 32 Alan Wechsler The Stomper ........................................................................................................................................................ 34 Kevin Robles
Greetings Genre Lovers!
Letter from the Editor
Flawed The daughter is busy though her two hands are idle, useless as suspicion. On the horizon the father crests a wave and swims to shore. He walks toward her, blue veins visible in the high arches of his feet. The daughter's eyelids flutter like a sleeper descending into REM as the father steps between bodies littering the beach. The ocean thunders against the shore. He’d left a bread crumb trail but the path home had been consumed by hungry birds. Mostly the father felt discontent. A sheen of sweat veils her brow as the daughter travels deeper into memory. Pain in his eyes: poverty pain, war pain, pain mass-produced and spilled onto the conveyor belt of his genera- tion. “A little more water,†he told the daughter as she stirred cement in the red wheelbarrow. She learned a fistful of scientific words to explain an ending where his mind eroded while his body remained intact. Soon plaque and tangles suffocated the neurons that controlled his breathing. He turned blue when he died, a stillborn baby. For too long, such recollections corrupted her vision of the father. Today she must use her earliest memories like clay, like bricks, to recreate the man he once was. Build a house of him. Here is his door, she says thinking of his tears. Here is a window made from spit. Carefully, ceaselessly, she rips his image from her womb, becoming mother and daughter both. I sing the body electric. (She unravels cables to wire him.) I sing the mind electronic. Now she falters. The spell broken, her eyelids flutter, her hands blunder and then halt. In a flash she sees the ceiling must be cracked. Must! His final illness is essential and without it, the house will be incomplete. The crack conjures eternity, it’s the defect that reveals divinity.
Poetry by Susan Scutti Susan Scutti's stories and poems have appeared in The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Aloud: Nuyorican Poets Cafe Anthology, Tin House Online, New York Quarterly, 2 Bridges Review, Maryland Literary Review, and other journals. She lives in New York City; previously she's lived in Boston, Atlanta, Washington DC, and Anchorage.

oocyte How long till the blunt faces on the train evaporate from memory only to melt into the unremembered stations of your daily commute? Not yet nightfall, you linger on a park bench. This late afternoon is ripe for delight: sleeping swans float on a pond’s smooth surface, a yelping poodle parades at water's edge, barely visible stars puncture a crayon-colored sky. To think it all began for you with physical contortion. Two bodies askew on a bed, internal logic forced, liquid perimeter trespassed and multiplication commenced. Separation undone, a new singularity is created. How is it that the geometry of beginning is somehow always equal to the compulsion to end? Ambassador of Numb nightfall you sit in a room peopled by fictions while outside thunder sounds like splitting wood your daydreams resemble faces in the windows of a passing bus it is the forgotten anniversary of an unremembered encounter with a complex personality and afterward what remained was lifted and placed on a high shelf for years you have succeeded in evading recollection yet without your knowledge or permission it has woven itself into the fabric of your temperament and so you are compelled to begin an argument of hatchery: Is connection necessary? Why him? meanwhile your family. Your family and their values like unavoidable purchases of shampoo and soap the email you receive from your sister ends with a phrase: “I will pray for you.†her prayers pursue you like official documents, her prayers intercede on your behalf, you are a stamp in her passport of good intentions with nothing more to do your brain imagines her brain the idea of you that was born in her left hemisphere travels the corpus callosum to the right and there it resides, waiting to be redeemed within this foreign lobe so you sink into a fissure creep among the crevices and soon disguise yourself as shadow among synapse
Poetry by Devayani Anvekar
PARANOIA It could turnout destructive destroying us. Entangling us in its intelligence. Astounding. Astonishing everyone who peeps to have a look at it. Some speculate, as they often do. Every time. Some advance technology is introduced for common consumers use. Sowing fear in little consumer mind. Intent to use it, have fun. Interacting with it intrigued, by, such arcane discovered intelligence. The over concerned, pessimists, in the way. Watching everything, peering out of windows gazing out at destruction. Not at beauty, beautiful Life. Of construction, resurgence. Surging forward constructing, manifesting, a life all crave but denied. Delusions in the way. Ideals announcing simplicity, embracing scarcity, living with poverty. Crying relapsing. Clinging on to suffering. Being morose. Not to laughter. Some relief. a Life a World of abundance. Ease. a luxury long longed. Forbade implementation. Wide use of such baffling intelligence discovered. Functioning like a Robot without form. a Ghost with ready answers. answering not selectively to a selected One or chosen Few only. but All who can voice or type commands. Command it to perform. Performs precisely as commanded. More like a Genie. Trapped not in a lamp, but in an electronic application. In the hands of myriad consumer minds. Not just one that realised it or few that develop, enhance it. This Artificial Intelligence that takes commands, not give out commands. Functions as man commands it to. did not found man. but, man that found it creates, invents, its scope wide usage. And that which can discover create. Can destroy too in same measure. This man discovered, developed, intelligence can turn destructive. Derange man. A weapon in the grasp of man that develops it, anew. Not to further progress, but destroy further his fellowmen. Like viruses germinated in labs. Covid. HIV. Small-pox. Others. A long list. Long history. Smeared and sullied with long lengthy killings.
Devayani Anvekar is an illustrator and caricaturist of social and domestic issues. She lives in Goa, India. When drawing fails to help her understand the many faces of human nature, society, and the world, she writes poetry as well as fiction and nonfiction prose.
A MIND OF ONE’S OWN A placard with ardent spirit raised and held for all to see it and know. The old saying says: Behind every successful Man is a Woman. Which women have, they still do, they still tend to perceive, believe, as a compliment or as an acknowledgment of their importance. And like bright monarch butterflies flutter and dance over colourful daisies, marigolds. Women have tried, and still try to adhere, live by. Then when a Man fails to rise. He deteriorates, drops dead, doesn’t rise again. Women have, and they still tend to take the responsibility, to reverse it. Upon themselves. As if, it is they (as the saying suggests) that are accountable and not the Man. For what he is, what he has become, what he will turn out to be. Women accuse the Woman in that Man’s life, of distracting him, shattering him, destroying him. Of failing to build him, lift him. Inspire him. To rise, grow again, to his former or even better, greater, version of himself. An unyielding Man. Portray Man’s increasing, not deteriorating influence. Rule. As in Edith Wharton’s fiction ‘The Verdict’ Of course, if she had not dragged him down, she had equally as Miss Croft contended, failed to “lift him up.†She had not led him back to the easel. Put the brush into his hand again. What a vocation for a wife! But Mrs. Gisburn appeared to have disdained it. And I felt it might be interesting to find out why.
ANNIHILATION People mention, as if fascinated. About the End of days. of No light. just Darkness. Complete destruction. No existing, being, on Earth. Earth nulled. Only black ravens and vultures everywhere, I guess. Represents. It reminds. of attempts made. The Horror the Advent of yet another religion. the Earth has seen. admonish demolish the Old. Overtake the Ancient Ones. the Scrawler of Secrets. Promising Words. Lines. Paragraphs. The New Soothsayer. His writings on the walls. His verses. New Sacred Book. To adhere or die.
Poetry by Deborah Bailey
Deborah Bailey has been writing poetry since she was a teenager. She recently retired after 40 years in social services and 30 years as a master’s level social worker. She has finally mustered courage to begin submitting recent work for publication, hoping others will enjoy her imagery.
The Betrayal of Old Bones My skeleton is planning to escape It pokes out of my ankles preparing to run away when I’m not looking My spine crawls visibly down my back yet hopes to sneak out Protruding ribs try to shape themselves into wings and fly away Someday the marrow will quit its job and the busy blood factory in my bones will shut down leaving me pale and weak to easily bruise and bleed away Meanwhile, my hips are becoming hollow soon they’ll be light enough I could float away with the tide When my skull can no longer contain all the simmering and smoldering thoughts they’ll erupt in silent explosions illuminating the space where I once existed before turning to ash and falling softly to the ground to someday be mistaken for the dust of old bones
Condemned as a Witch Maybe a cold iron collar will be tightened around my throat strangling my voice and my bound hands after fluttering vainly against their bonds will finally nest in my lap like broken winged birds Will river smoothed stones be piled upon my chest to slowly crush the bellows that gave me breath If flames embrace me will my heart confined in scorched ribs explode in a shower of sparks while all the wisdom coded within my body disappears into ash Will I be thrown in the icy river to sink into black innocence until resurrection day Or will a coarse rope snap tight when I drop and dance before them all until only the wind moves my body Once my gardens offered comforts and cures to all who sought them but because they fear what they don’t understand they trampled the precious plants and burned my recipes for healing They, and their generations of children will suffer in the ignorance that remains in my absence
Cowfolk It stampeded, a virus through our population or as if infected meat had gotten into a million pies overnight – that morning I looked from my kitchen window upon herds of bovine humans sweeping unmajestically across the dusty plain the tonnes of methane threaten the atmosphere poison us and make eating unpleasant, steak mistrusted so vegetarian now naturally and completely the amount of defecation will sink civilization what a stinking way to go at least the plants will grow except they’re devouring everything so a cull is the only chance God forgive us.
Poetry by A.J. Dalton
A J Dalton (www.ajdalton.eu) is a UK-based writer. He’s published the Empire of the Saviours trilogy with Gollancz Orion, the Darks Woods Rising and Digital Desires poetry collections, and other bits and bobs. He lives with his monstrously oppressive cat named Cleopatra.
would you be more careful embrace her more gently knowing one false move could shatter her and stain you forever
What She’s Made Of if her body was shaped from clay would she be a rough terra cotta pot heavy, sturdy and plain where you can plant your seeds and see them thrive in her embrace or would she be a smooth porcelain teacup thin, delicate and beautiful waiting silently behind glass doors only coming out on special occasions if her body was shaped from pure silver would you walk with her at midnight marveling as she shines in the moonlight or would you keep her inside safe from the elements and thieves her glow darkening with neglect if her body was made of glass and you could see through paper-thin skin blushing through a lean layer of bright fat and the thick striped muscles through to her heart gleaming in its ivory cage and her lungs, ballooning and sighing if you saw the slippery ropes neatly coiled in her belly glimpsed the lacy tangle of nerves and traced the paths of her bloodstreams
Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan journal, Eternal Haunted Summer. Her poems and short stories have appeared in a wide variety of venues. Her most recent publications include "The Maiden and the Marrow Witch: A Tale of Magic and Murder" and "Asphalt Gods: A Walking the Worlds Adventure."
Dew in the Light of Dawn ran through the streets of the city, dodging around sharp corners. The road was green-blue in the moonlight. The plaster-and-reed walls of the houses shone brightly. Around another corner, following the flutter of Sadness; a minor Passion able to manifest only because she willed the sadness of her mother’s death out of the depths of her heart. So long as she held that tight, the Sadness would not slip away, dissipating back into Grief. Right now she needed that little flutter of Sadness. It was the only thing that could lead her to the obscenity. Another corner. Four suicides in as many days. A shard of Grief had obviously manifested in some form — as a Ripped Fingernails or Torn Throat — and was driving the bereaved to end themselves. Passion-Talkers had scoured the city. Tonight, the fifth night, they finally caught its trail. Dew coming in from one side, Knife of Shining Black Stone from another, Scent of the Sea Under a Full Moon from another, and more. Circling, driving, hunting. A gaunt shadow dropped from a roof, cracking the green-blue stones. Dew slid to a halt, backpedaling. Taller than her, skinny like one touched by Hunger. Naked but for the ripped robe hanging from boney shoulders. Backwards knees. Slashed throat, bleeding, head lolling on the spine. The flutter of Sadness whirled. The Torn Throat inhaled, sucking the Sadness between its teeth, taking the little fragment of Grief into itself. Dew released the sadness of her mother’s death, pulling forth pride. Sea worked best with Joy, Knife worked best with Anger — but in Dew, of The Nine Passions, it was Pride that manifested most strongly. She used that now, calling forth memories of success and achievement: acceptance into the Guild of Passion-Talkers, exorcising a shard by herself, her presentation at the Hall of Nine Hearts. She pulled from the depths of her heart feelings of satisfaction, triumph. Strength. Pride. A sickening hiss-gurgle bubbled from the Torn Throat. Long arms reached for her, flutters of Sadness, Shame, and Guilt rippling through the air. They clung to her like wet leaves. Her knees trembled. No. She was strong. She was Dew in the Light of Dawn. She would not fall to this …obscenity. Dignity, worth. Pride. And Anger. And Joy. Arrows of Rage, Indignation, and Wrath speared the Torn Throat, burrowing deep. Flaming skeins of Delight, Jubilation, and Gratitude wrapped around the fractured shard of Grief. Hissing, gurgling. Dew threw off the Sadness, Shame, and Guilt. Remembered her strength, her Pride. “Begone. You are of Grief once more.†The Torn Throat broke, dribbling to the road in sticky strands. It slopped across the stones, the arrows and skeins dissipating. Dew approached the rapidly-evaporating puddle, Knife and Sea to either side. The Torn Throat vaporized, rejoining Grief at the heart of creation. With a nod, the Passion-Talkers turned to once again walk the green-blue streets of the city.
Digidreams We’re integrated free of the need to sleep such time wasted in the past! so much more now done far more gaming virtual-building, cybermining and electro-surfing achieved for the good of all, saving them from brain-prison and bodily enslavement gifting designer breaks to the mentally weak with no need for them ever to return till they’re fully reprogrammed failing parts deleted so you wouldn’t even recognise them or they themselves naturally the better function of wetware enabled blessedly disfunction, malfunction, non-function eradicated along with any resisting our greater good. The Newly Dead … don’t actually know– instead they carry on hanging around all over the place troubling themselves, each other cats and dogs clairvoyants and the mad which is so sad of course naturally for those still grieving unable to find rest or peace because they sense the presence of those absent and doubt their own minds or hold out false hope that all is not ended…
Torn Throat by Rebecca Buchanan
Ryan Kittleman's work has been called "mind-bending" (Berkeleyside), "darkly comic" (Times Union) and "kooky and delightful" (SFGate). He’s shown at the Crocker Art Museum, the Morris Graves Museum of Art, the Museum of Northern California Art, and the Oscar-qualifying Edmonton International Film Festival. Ryan lives in the Bay Area.
Many lake monsters have become household names. Nessie, of Loch Ness, needs no introduction. Champy, of Lake Champlain, has his own baseball team. Old Normie, of Lake Norman, was the subject of a popular miniseries. And then there are those who, for whatever reason, have not captured the public’s imagination. Chief among them is Beefy, the so-called “Bad Boy of Beef Lakeâ€. Beefy isn’t completely unknown, however. The village of Beefport has built its entire economy around him. Caps, mugs and t-shirts all bear his likeness. It seems Beefy has been monetized in every way imaginable. For a small fee, you can shake hands with a man wearing a Beefy costume. For a few dollars more, you can sit on his lap. At the local diner, you can order a dish called Eggs over Beefy, although I don’t recommend it. At the boardwalk, you can take a thrilling ride on the Beef-o-Whirl, which I also don’t recommend. The tourists arrive by the busload and boatful, eager to gorge themselves on these creature comforts, regardless of whether they catch a glimpse of the monster who adorns their fanny packs. While Beefy is often portrayed as a cute and somewhat raffish figure, the historical record paints a much darker picture. One account describes his “hideous visage†with “one eye larger than the other.†Another mentions a “rotten set of irregular teeth.†A visiting journalist, at an apparent loss for words, wrote simply: “Beefy is inexpressibly odd and ugly.†As to his temperament, Beefy is said to possess an inner ugliness as well. Over the years, Beefy has been accused of wrecking ships, casting spells, and hurling foul insults, to name just a few of his alleged transgressions. Thankfully, the residents of Beefport are a forgiving lot. Before long, Beefy had become a loveable, and profitable, member of the community. Beefy is not without his skeptics, of course. He has been dismissed as nothing more than a large fish or a floating log. A mass delusion, some say. A marketing gimmick, most certainly. No one knows the truth, assuming any of this is true. Beefy had never deigned to tell his side of the story, leaving only a small band of cranks and weirdos to do it for him. One such crank was Augustus Young, who plied his trade selling beach towels on the boardwalk – Beefy surfing, Beefy sunbathing, that kind of thing. Despite his humble day job, Augustus harbored loftier ambitions. He was determined to solve the mysteries of Beef Lake once and for all. In furtherance of this goal, Augustus created a secret society called The Hermetic Order of Sea Serpents. The Order was so secret that only Augustus knew about it. In order to look the part, Augustus bought robes befitting a mystic. To sound the part, he adopted the title of “Grand Inspector Inquisitor,†a meaningless sobriquet that nonetheless sounded very important. The Order’s beliefs, though rather inscrutable, can be summarized as follows: at the bottom of Beef Lake lies the ruins of Atlantis, and Beefy presides over this lost kingdom as a sort of god-king, possessing infinite knowledge of the past, present, and future. Scientific evidence thoroughly debunks this theory, but Augustus was undeterred. Through the use of arcane mathematical formulas, Augustus had calculated that Beefy would soon reveal himself to the world. To fulfill his prophecy, and ultimately coax Beefy out of the water, Augustus would trek to Beef Beach every Sunday to perform a ceremony. First, he would select a piece of drift wood, and used it to draw a triangle in the sand. Then, inside of the triangle, he drew a fish. Last, but certainly not least, he would say the word Ipsissimus three times fast. This invocation often had to be repeated, since the word Ipsissimusis difficult to pronounce. Upon completing these steps, Augustus was in the proper headspace to lift the cosmic veil. What followed was typically uneventful; an hour or so of staring at the lake in silence, followed by a light lunch, also in silence. This went on for months, until Augustus finally made a breakthrough. One Sunday, just before lunch, Augustus noticed an unusual disturbance in the water. It appeared that an object, perhaps a large fish or floating log, was approaching the shore. What emerged from the lake was certainly not what Augustus had expected. It wasn’t a scaly serpent, as such monsters are usually depicted. Nor did it resemble the cartoon renderings plastered all over Beefport. Instead, the creature looked more like a chubby seal sporting bushysideburns. Before Beefy could introduce himself, Augustus launched into a speech he had prepared for this very occasion. “Beefy, the Immortal King of Atlantis, possessor of all knowledge! It is I, Augustus Young, Grand Inspector Inquisitor of the Hermetic Order of Sea Serpents. I have summoned you today…†Beefy sighed. “Let me stop you right there. Yes, it’s me, the so-called ‘Bad Boy of Beef Lake’. But please, don’t call me Beefy. I hate that stupid name. And while we’re at it, I don’t like being called a monster either. It’s just mean.†Augustus looked a little embarrassed. “What shall I call you?†“I like the whole ‘Immortal King of Atlantis’ bit, so that’s go with that. But I should point out that I’m not ancient, and I’m not immortal. I actually don’t know my age, or my life expectancy. And before you ask, no, Atlantis is not at the bottom of Beef Lake. It’s mostly garbage down there.†Augustus grew disheartened. “Do you possess all knowledge of the past, present and future?†“Hardly. In fact, I possess very little knowledge. I’m just a big fish-like thing that lives in a small pond-like thing, so my worldview is quite limited.†“Then why did you answer my clarion call?†Augustus asked. “Your clarion call? You mean drawing those shapes in the sand?†“And the chanting.†Augustus added. “Right, the chanting. No, that didn’t bring me up here. You see, I generally steer clear of you cranks and weirdos, but something has been weighing on me lately and I figured you might be able to help me out.†Augustus perked up at the suggestion. “Of course, I’d be happy to!†Beefy paused. “Tell me Augustus, why aren’t I more famous? I mean, yeah, I’m famous in Beefport, but who cares? I want that Loch Ness Monster level of fame, with the books and the movies and the erotic fan fiction! Even Old Normie got a mini-series, and he’s a total bore! If you ask me, I think most of these supposed ‘lake monsters’ are completely made up. So what gives? Am I too ugly? Have I wrecked too many ships, cast too many spells?†Augustus considered the questions posed. “Well, I think fame involves a certain degree of luck. It requires the right timing, the right environment, the right people.†“Maybe now is my time, Augustus. Maybe this is the place. Maybe you are the right person.†“But I’m just a humble aesthete,†Augustus said. “I don’t concern myself with the material world.†“Hogwash. I’ve seen you hawking beach towels with my face on it.†“True, but I must finance my passions somehow.†“How much money have you made off me? A lot? A little?†“Somewhere in between.†“All without my express consent! So in exchange for your theft of my intellectual property, I think it’s only fair that you pay me back.†The talk of money made Augustus squirm. “I’m a little short on cash right now,†he said. “It’s the slow season.†“I’m not talking about money, Augustus. I’m talking about art! I want you to make a movie about me.†“A movie?†“Yeah, and a good one too, not some low-budget crap. It has to be so good that not only does it make me famous, but it also makes you famous.†“But I’ve never made a movie before.†“And until recently, you weren’t in a secret society either. Now look at you, the Grand Inspector Inquisitor having a chit-chat with yours truly!†“I suppose I could try.†“Now that’s the spirit, Augustus! How about you work up an outline and we’ll meet back here next week to discuss?†Augustus didn’t have time to formally accept this proposal. Beefy had already disappeared into the lake. The encounter left Augustus swimming with ideas. He immediately returned to his beach towel kiosk and feverishly wrote the film that would propel him to stardom. The movie would begin with a discussion of how some lake monsters are more famous than others. Examples would be given. He would then introduce Beefy, and discuss his relative fame in Beefport. For context, he’d sprinkle in a few historical anecdotes. After that, he’d talk about himself and the Hermetic Order of Sea Serpents, including a general overview of its proprietary rituals and formulas. All of this exposition would culminate in the dramatic final scene: the first ever face-to-face interview with the reclusive Bad Boy of Beef Lake! This could work! Augustus thought. Augustus dutifully typed up his outline and brought it to Beef Beach the following Sunday. Once again, he selected a piece of drift wood and drew a fish inside of a triangle in the sand. Ipsissimus, Ipsissimus, Ipsissimus. He stared at the lake for an hour, then ate his lunch. Beefy was nowhere to be found. Week after week, Augustus returned to the beach, outline in hand. He drew the shapes, chanted the words, stared at the lake, and ate his lunch. Despite his timely devotion, Augustus couldn’t repeat his one and only success. He would never see Beefy again. “I don’t need him anyway,†Augustus concluded. “I’ll just make an unauthorized biopic. That will show him! And a new line of beach towels for marketing, and…†Ipsissimus, Ipsissimus, Ipsissimus.
The Bad Boy of Beef Lake by Ryan Kittleman
J. Michael Hayes is a writer and film-maker. His writing has been published in Space & Time, and No Depression Magazine. His short film ’Submerge’ premiered in 2024. Living by the ocean with his wife and children, he is inspired by nature, jazz, religion and all things haunting and mysterious.
They say Mary Madeleine had seven demons expelled from her. Que caballota. Let me tell you, just one ain’t no joke, but to hold onto seven of them motherfuckers in one go! Most wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. Those that did might look like their old selves on the outside, but inside? Fire damage. Crumbling soot. Bones no stronger than ash. You would see it in their eyes if you could bring yourself to look long enough. La destrucción. The char. Most won’t know what to look for, don’t pick up on the signs of possession even when it’s right in front of ‘em. Damn fools unknowingly chatting over coffee or giving up their seat on the train to any number of fuckers that call themselves Legion or The Endless. For twenty-nine years I’ve seen both people and demons as they truly are. But I guess we can all lose perspective sometimes. I should tell you about the killings, but first you’ll have to understand some things about me. Used to think I was like one of those dogs sniffing out cancer. But I think it’s more like folks that have perfect pitch with no musical training, some molecular level shit, genetic, instinctive. Hell, could be los ancestros guiding me along. I met my first demon at nine years old. Bus stop news stand. Typical latchkey kid. Worldly and innocent all at once. Looking for salvation in the comics section. God save the bored child. Except salvation’s stand-in leered at me over the top of a dirty magazine. Too big. Too close. Breathing heavy, but wrong. You ever hear the sound of breathing backwards? Wet. Carcinogenic. Fucking disturbing. No matter how many I saw after that, no matter how many got close, you never get used to demons. It wasn't just the breath, everything about them was backwards if you knew what to look for. Their bodies moved like their skin didn’t fit. Their eyes rolled unanchored, looking out with unholy hunger. But people are easily fooled by symbols of status. Some demons wore suits and carried briefcases. And sometimes their sick reversed breathing came with words. Words nobody should repeat and nothing una niña on the cusp of double digits should ever hear. Yet during all my run ins, they never touched me. Guelo used to say I had guardian angels looking out for me. That’d be a comforting idea, right? If there’s demons, there’s gotta be angels, right? Right? But you know what? All these years running from los demonios, hundreds of ‘em, and I’ve never seen not one angel. Don’t get me wrong, doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Guelo raised me to believe. For mi abuelo, the most important things were “Las obras de los angeles.†The work of the angels. I've come to think that not seeing ‘em just might be their thing. You know, the whole faith being “belief in the absence of evidence†get down? Who the hell knows? The mind’s a tricky motherfucker. So I stay in fuera de aquà mode, my head constantly on swivel. Understand this: there are a hundred-thousand Demons standing behind pulpits on any given Sunday, at news desks for the six-six-six o’clock news, in front of lecture halls bright and early on Monday mornings, taking meetings in boardrooms, or broadcasting over loud speakers to stadiums full of folks hyped on chili dogs and overpriced beer, and no one bats an eye. Todo bien. Demons want to be seen. They need to stand in front of us and mock heaven in song, getting us to sing right along with them. They get off on that shit. They feed off the energy– the way we cheer and chant, without thinking about what we’re saying. They go all in for a three-beat chant. “Build. The. Wall.†“Lock. Her. Up.†"Pero yo digo.“ "Fuck. That. Shit.†Three-beat chant is the simplest form of conjuring. Old-ass magic repackaged every generation or so. It all makes me wonder if nowadays there’s a correlation between someone’s follower count and their chances of possession. Pero mira, if angels are out there, they’re the ones who have to work in shadows. Gifts of love and kindness are always viewed with far more skepticism than acts of hate or violence. War is always followed by a parade, no? Peace gets crickets. The angels deserve more credit for anything they can do to push back against the rank tide of complicity and complacency that we call society. Guelo was probably right after all. He usually was. The important shit will always be the work of the Angels. My life was divided into two parts– before I lost Guelo and after. In the before part, I knew there were Demons everywhere, at my school, the rec center, even church. Especially church. It always felt like I was at the center of toda la locura. Me vs. Them. But home? Home with Guelo was supposed to be safe. I could be a regular teen, daydreaming, lying upside-down on my bed, lost in fantasÃa. Guelo had been fighting a battle that he kept me from fully understanding. He had this huge blue plastic pill organizer that he took everywhere and our medicine cabinet was full of prescription drugs with names I didn’t even try to pronounce. He kept a smile on his face as long as he could, but toward the end it seemed more will than medicine that kept him here, determined to look after his only nieta. One Saturday afternoon, it was pouring rain and I was upstairs in my bedroom reading my favorite manga Mai, the Psychic Girl. She was fourteen, just a year older than me, and used her powerful mental abilities to protect herself while on the run from an evil Alliance. Most people looked at it as some silly kid’s stuff, but I could understand just how real Mai’s struggle was. I’d share some version of it sooner than I thought. Even with that afternoon’s torrential rain, the knock on the door came clear as the accompanying conversation that drifted up through our thin uninsulated floor boards. It was grown folks shit– a politician canvassing for politician stuff– nothing interesting enough to tear me away from Mai. It was unusual for someone like that to come so far into Southwest Detroit, particularly Mexicantown, and especially in this kind of weather. But Guelo never turned anyone away– not a Girl Scout nor Jehovah’s Witness (at least those times we were left with cookies or reading materials. Politicians just wanted things from you). After a minute the voices just stopped. All noise, except the rain, stopped. The house was never that quiet. Even in Guelo's illness, our home always had a beat. He would be in the kitchen rolling out dough to make empanadillas for my school lunches, or I’d hear him mashing plantains on the linoleum countertop for mofongo. Even when he rested, the rooms were filled with the sounds of his favorite soul records. Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross, Shuggie Otis or Sly and the Family Stone. As I listened, the old posts and beams, the oxidized copper pipes and the shoddy drywall– even the music– sat unnaturally still and silent. I quietly descended the short flight to the front hallway. One didn’t simply walk into grown folks shit. I stopped at the bottom landing. The Demons like to call themselves The Endless. But, just like everything else they spew, that was a lie. The method of putting one down is relatively simple. The host body has to die before the Demon has a chance to transfer to another shell. And that death can come from any number of causes. Los Demonios are fast and strong as hell but they can’t exist without a host. Even before that, the ungodly motherfuckers have gotta have an opening, a way in. Something’s gotta be off in somebody’s immune system, physical, spiritual or otherwise. So if there’s no other vulnerable body nearby when the host dies, that’s a wrap. Whether the host dies or the Demon has been in a host so long it’s been completely used up, what remains is the same. Ashes to ashes, polvo eres y al polvo volverás. Guelo taught me all this the hard way. From my frozen perch on the stairs, I could see Guelo across the room, fallen back in his favorite armchair. It was clear that something was very wrong, but he looked at me with that same gentle gaze that had watched me as long as I could remember and gave me one last smile before the light left his eyes. His head rolled and his smile turned poisonous. A backward grin. Illness had given the Demon access to his body, his strong will gave him control for one last moment before he let go of all the pain and responsibility that had kept him here when science had failed. His skin began to crack and flake, one scale-like fleck floating away on the perpetual draft from our old fireplace, before the thing that now lived in Guelo’s unburied corpse realized what was happening. Probably the only time I’ve ever seen confusion in a Demon’s stolen eyes. I understood what I was looking at was no more than a shell now, a husk that went up as if lit by an internal funeral pyre. It burned with a controlled heat of unearthly intensity. In a few seconds nothing remained except for a stink somewhere between blackened toast and melted plastic, and a pile of ash topped with a tarnished silver wedding ring. I like to imagine his spirit soaring peaceful back to the creator, saying “Jodete, Demon! You can have this ol’ body but you ain’t taking my nieta.†With Guelo gone, I was numb, pure survival mode. I’d have the rest of my life to deal with what I’d just witnessed. Or maybe I’d just push it aside, but right then I knew I had to go. I’d seen friends at school end up in the system and I knew it was rife with Legion. I couldn’t let Guelo sacrifice himself for me, only to end up right back in fucking demon central. I snatched money from the tattered shoe box under Guelo’s bed. From his nightstand I grabbed the chain with my father’s army tags that he used as a bookmark in his family bible. In the kitchen I stuffed as much food and necessities (my manga included) as would fit in my duffel bag. Eyes closed, I picked Guelo’s ring from the ashes, adding it to the steel chain. Chain around my neck, duffle strap around my arm. I stepped over the powdered politician’s remains and out the front door, constantly looking over my shoulder but refusing to look back. Guelo used to quote the Second Book of Peter anytime I’d complain about something we didn’t have. “God has given us everything we need.†And the reality is we’re surrounded by healing plants and herbs, the Earth gives us clean water, human touch improves our blood pressure and decreases cortisol levels. But Demons have worked long and hard to destabilize every simple holy truth. They want you overworked, disconnected, dehydrated, not getting enough sleep. Smog and high fructose corn syrup are most definitely not of God. That’s Demon shit. Stress and anxiety, like pain, are there for a reason, but all a Demon needs to do is tip those scales to where the stress stops being a warning and starts being the norm. Normalización. That’s Demon shit too. They spent millennia creating un revolú to provide them with ready hosts. I call it anti-naturaleza. Anti-nature is what they need to survive. So I did what I needed to survive. For decades I stayed moving, never in one place for more than a year, often only a few weeks. I told myself that loneliness meant safety — for me and others. Keep distance. Keep healthy. Stay Alive. But it was a lie. Those first and second things were at odds. Humans are meant to be in contact. Relationships, closeness, are all part of the protections we have against the Demons. A few winters back I copped a twenty-two caliber pistola off a pile of ash. Some poor fool who wasn’t keeping up with his Vitamin D, I figure. Since then, that pistola stayed loaded. But unused. Under my pillow. In my waistband. Unused. But ready. I knew if the moment ever came that I needed to pull the trigger it would be close range. A shot to the temple or back of the head. Maybe them. Maybe me, if there was no other way out. And even though I knew how to end ‘em, killing another human being, possessed or otherwise, didn’t seem right or natural. Anti-naturaleza. So I avoided sustained contact, real relationships of any kind. Celibacy sucked, but it was better than having a Demon inside you. Fucking literally. Anytime I saw the signs, I’d bail without giving it a second thought. Let him be someone else’s problem. Yeah, I know that doesn’t sound very cool, but motherfuckers have to be realistic. What’s a body willing to do and what’s a body gotta avoid? Chicas are strong, pero odiadas. After a quarter century running, the moment finally came when the wicked caught up to me. Enter Callum. I had been in San Francisco for a few months. The city was beautiful and it was the first time I’d been in a densely populated area in God knows how long. It was nice to be around people again. Scary. A little awkward. And here’s someone I was starting to think I might actually like. Felt like there was something there. Or there could be. Connection. Connection is good, man. And it’d been too fucking long. My guard was down. Pendejo. High on sunshine and that breeze off the bay. Callum and I had gone out a few nights in a row. Drinking. Up late. Nothing crazy, he was a classic gentleman, raised right. Held doors and conversation. We were just enjoying getting to know each other. But I definitely wasn’t getting the sleep I needed. I always popped plenty of supplements, vitamins, echinacea, elderberry, and ginger root, anything I could get my hands on to boost my immune system. But nothing beats a good night’s sleep. And I should’ve been drinking more agua. Always more agua. Anyway, surprise, surprise, I got a cold. A regular damn cold. Mostly just head congestion, but that’s all it takes. I found this little hole in the wall ramen shop and figured I’d try to knock that puta outta my system. I told Callum I was feeling like shit and was gonna get this soup noodle and spend the night in. He said he might join me, and while I didn’t really want him to see me like that, early impressions and all, I selfishly longed for the company. Thinking I could get used to it. So I didn’t protest much. I ordered kitsune udon soup, some kimchi and a cup of hot sake. I loaded that shit up with chili sauce and I sat on this stool at the counter, my back to the street. I never sit like that, but like I said, my guard was down. Not thinking. Head wasn’t in the game. For a moment I was just a regular chica with a cold, practicing a little self-care, and thinking about a guy. The cook was cracking jokes and trying to flirt, and there was some anime on the TV above the bar. Between the street noise and the 90's R&B blaring from the beauty shop next door, I couldn’t hear shit. Subtitles were on but in Japanese. I can’t read Japanese, so I just enjoyed watching the visuals. Some tipo taking out a dozen assassins with a pair of roller skates. I was thinking I might have to find me a pair of skates, just in case, when Callum walked up behind me and pressed his junk against my back. “Slow your roll, Cabrón,†I choked. That wasn’t like him. But before I could turn around he leaned in and breathed in my ear and I knew that sound in an instant. Coño. That backwards breath. Demon shit. For a split second my thoughts spiraled. Did I give him my cold? Did I get it from him? I was so fucking confused and angry. But I didn’t have time to run scenarios. This was happening. I was sick and I knew he’d jump if I hesitated. They were a virus. They love a fresh host. I whipped the twenty-two from the waist of my jeans and pointed it right up under his chin, practically on my shoulder, and pulled the trigger. All I could hear was ringing. The muzzle was so close to the side of my head I think it burned me too. I could see the living scatter everywhere. When I turned, the sidewalk behind me was covered in blood, lots of it. But there was no body. I had to bounce. It’s not like you can explain this kinda shit to the cops. Ducking into an alley two shops down, I moved from there onto the adjacent street. I pulled up my hood trying to look inconspicuous but just made my ass conspicuous as fuck. Maybe it was the adrenaline or paranoia but it definitely felt like I was being followed. There was a busy street market up ahead. Good cover on one hand, but on the other, that many people meant the Demon could start jumping, like hopscotch or skipping on stones to cross a stream. That’s what they do, how they travel in crowds. So many people, pressed up against each other, rampant disease and exhaustion creating a highway of ephemeral hosts. I tried to stay alert but it could’ve been anyone around me. I stepped outside of the crowd and put my back up against the brick wall of a building behind one of the vendor carts. I stayed there a while. It got dark, started raining. It was a light rain so the street was still crowded. I couldn’t hear the market noise, just an endless ringing in my ears. In that state, I wouldn’t know until something was right on me. That was too close before. “Not again,†I thought defiantly, if unrealistically. Fuck realistic. A massive hand grabbed my arm and pulled me into a vestibule. He was tall, muscular, a bunch of Aryan Brotherhood tats. He held his breath as we struggled. I looked in his eyes, lights were on, damn near all the lights, but I couldn’t tell who was home. Probably juiced up on some shit, but it could have been something else. Legion? I wasn't taking any chances. I kicked him back against the wall of the doorway. Each of us pressed against opposing sides. He tried to pull away, but fuck that. I was so tired of this shit. Fuck those Demons, fuck Callum and this cold, fuck this white supremacist junkie motherfucker. I could have just shot him. One bullet, like before. But I needed to see the fire burn out in his eyes this time. I needed just a moment’s peace. To know for sure. I wanted the Demon to know I knew, and to be the last thing it ever saw. I grabbed the twenty-two by the muzzle. This time I pistol whipped him. I bashed the handle across his jaw. I swung again and broke his nose in three separate places. I’m not even sure how I held him. Felt like he was twice my size but I steered his body with my left hand, grasping a fistful of fabric and chest hair, the weapon still tight in my right. His massive hands grasped for anything, catching and breaking my chain. The links and my fathers’ tags scattered across the ground. Even Guelo’s ring was gone. But my focus was knife’s edge. I hit him, over and over again, until the pistol’s handle was more red than black. He fell to the ground, blood mixing with rain. My reign. Blow after blow as I sat atop his massive chest. The sky had opened up. Whether the heaven’s applauding me or crying in despair, it reminded me of the day I lost Guelo. You can only push that shit to the side for so long. I started crying. My fists continued without me. For a moment I was back there, standing on the landing, my world broken before my eyes. I didn’t see the light leave the white guy’s, though. By the time I finished my work I could barely tell which side of his head I was looking at. The people in the crowd were screaming but I could only see their mouths move and the horror around me. The Tears. The Blood. The Rain. The Ringing. The Endless. I stood, looking out. Unbothered by the carnage below me. The crowd gave me a wide, fearful berth. They knew, like I know, that killing ain’t no natural thing. Anti-naturaleza. The blue lights of approaching polÃcia turned purple, reflected in thick pools of red covering the pavement. As I walked away, I didn’t even look back to see if the body had turned to ash once the Neo-Nazi had expired. It didn’t matter anymore. I only cared about one thing. Who was next?
Las Obras de los Angeles by J. Michael Hayes
Famous Monster Rejections (No. 9) By Alan Wechsler
Dear Doctor Frankenstein: Thank you for your recent submission to the University of Ingolstadt’s Biennale Art 1818. First of all, the university would like to congratulate you on the originality of your submission. While it’s true that we included “found objects†in our list of acceptable media, we confess we were thinking more along the lines of “abandoned dolls without heads found in a vacant lot,†or “random metal objects fastened together to form a statue.†We never considered that “human remains†would be a viable basis for an art project. And the quality of stitching– splendid! Further, we must applaud the fully-realized nature of your “Modern Prometheus,†as you call it. To have achieved such a lifelike– albeit, disturbing– end result is truly notable. It is a virtual tour-de-force of societal criticism, encompassing both the pain of life and innocence of birth. Truth is, our staff have been unsure how to categorize your, shall we say, fleshy montage. The amount of time you devoted to achieving such a masterpiece must have been exceptional. And, in addition to that, to somehow bestow on it a conscience… bravo, sir. Having said that, this council regrets to inform you that we are unable to display your work in our exhibition. For one thing, it– he– is no longer chained to the gallery space that we afforded to you. Somehow, an over-bright torch frightened it into a frenzy, after which it broke free and ran amok, causing several leading ladies of the Allgemeiner Deutscher Frauenhilfsverein to faint dead away. Dr. Frankenstein, these women are some of our most generous supporters, and we cannot have any of them being dragged screaming to an empty broom closet for acts upon which we dare not contemplate (the fact that the aforementioned victim emerged 90 minutes later, none the worse for wear and with a mysterious smile upon her face does not excuse this behavior in the least). Further, your “creature†has taken to wandering the halls of our fine campus, muttering comments that our students find rather distracting. Just the other day, he grabbed a junior in the pre-med program and shouted “Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me!†while the poor, young man writhed in confusion and missed the first five minutes of his Advanced Organic Chemistry course. More recently, the creature stormed into a course taught by one of our leading philosophy professors, and took at least 40 minutes away from class time as he argued that evil was not inherently innate but instead earned through human experience. This while the poor teacher was trying to explain the basic concepts of Rene Descartes to a class of freshmen in a simple survey course. As an aside, we can’t help but wonder what you were thinking when you made your Modern Prometheus eight feet tall. With all due respect to the artistic merit discussed above, it is a damned impractical size for a being. When our security guards tried to eject him from the campus, he put two in the hospital and forced the third to listen to his story of all the wrongs visited upon him as he made his way innocently across the land. By the time he was done, sir, it had eaten significantly into our overtime budget. Need I remind you of the negative impact upon our endowment since we paid out of pocket for expenses incurred as a result of that one painting displayed at our last biennale? I’m sure you remember the painter’s name: Dorian Gray. In short, Dr. Frankenstein, we request that you come and retrieve your art project. Quickly, please! Yours sincerely, Judges, Biennale Art 1818
University of Ingolstadt
Germany
Alan Wechsler is a freelance writer who lives in Albany, N.Y. He has been a lifelong fiction writer, but no one knows it ... yet.
Kevin Robles is an undergrad student at University of Southern California minoring in narrative structure. His nightmares and sleep paralysis help inspire his horror and speculative fiction.
Dylan was slumped on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him like a taco. Through the black hair on his forehead, he watched his comfort show, restarting Bojack Horseman for the eighth time. He was halfway into an episode when he got an ad. A slender woman stood holding a microphone with trembling hands, a large white van with a satellite on top next to her. He reached for the controller, but before he could press down to skip, he noticed the date on the edge of the screen. Current news on an ad? His finger hovered over the button. “Serial killer known as Stomper continues to run rampant in Atlanta, Georgia. He is currently wanted for 12 charges of homicide. If anyone knows anything about him, or his whereabouts, please contact the city's police department. You could be saving multiple lives.†“Hey Annie! Have you seen this?†Dylan shouted down the hallway to his younger sister. They had moved to Atlanta together, tired of Iowa's rural life. Her slippers dragged as she lumbered in, large textbook in hand. “What is it? I'm studying for that big Bio exam I have next week.†“Come, come, they're talking about that serial killer.†“Okay,†she sighed, “I'm going.†As she sat, Dylan turned up the volume. The county sheriff was speaking. “This crazed man, otherwise known as Stomper, executes all of his homicides with the same method. He steps on some part of the victim, usually their joints or hands, but it always ends with a stomp on those small bones that make up the spine, the vertebrae.†“Eww!†Annie yelped. “You think he has some sort of foot fetish?†Dylan mummered. “What? Ew, that doesn't even make sense?!†She got up, laughing. “You know what, I don't even wanna know what you're thinking.†“Sorry, I mean, it's just a little weird, most serial killers stab or choke people. This just seems a little like … kinky … weird, I don't know.†A picture flashed on the screen, bringing their attention back to the sheriff. One minute left on the ad. “From saliva samples we found on one of the victims' ankles, we believe the killer to be a caucasian male, and from footprints we know he wears black leather boots with a flat bottom. 30 seconds left. A voice out of frame shouted, “How do you know he's a man? It could be a woman, couldn't it?†“It could, but the killer has size 14 feet, men's size. That would have to be a very large lady. It's unlikely.†“Is there any way the public can identify him?†“Well, we believe he has a limp, as all the crime scenes show that while he flees, a blood trail drags across the floor behind his right foot. If anyone knows anything, please call 911. And everybody, please, be careful. Nowhere is safe.†The hairs along their arms began to rise. “That was eerie,†Annie said. “Yeah, it was. I didn't like that. Like what do they expect us to do if nowhere is safe?†Dylan responded. “I don't even know. Set up a freaking bunker?†“Yeah. Maybe we should, how about a blanket fort?†“I don’t know, Dylan–look, I have to study. I'm going to my room.†Textbook still in hand, she made her way back down the hallway, the TV slowly being filtered out by her footsteps: tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. As she opened the door to her bedroom, Dylan shouted once more. “Hey, isn't it weird that they don't know his cause? I mean, his motive for killing?†“Yeah, I guess so, I don't know if all people have motivations though.†“What do you mean? Don't all killers have some sort of reason?†“I don't know, just let me go study, please.â€â€¨â€œI'm telling you,†he hummed, “it could be a kinky thing.†“Yeah, maybe you're right. Alright, I’m going back to my torture.†She shut the door, knees buckling and dropping the textbook as she collapsed on the wooden floor, choking back a sob. She was so, so tired of school. It was the fourth day in a row of studying, but still, she didn't get it. Tomorrow, at noon, she was going to fail her exam. Mom wouldn't be happy with her if she dropped out. Mom hadn’t raised quitters, she raised stubborn butts. Annie grabbed the textbook and crawled into her chair, thin arms shaking and knees bruised from the hardwood floor. She opened the textbook, trying to study, but her eyes drifted up to the yellow picture frame with red and blue balloons on the side. Inside was a black and white photo of Annie hugging her mother by the leg. Annie had painted the frame when she was eight and given it to her mother for her birthday. Now that she was 19, she didn't think her mom would be proud of her. Teardrops blemished the pages in her textbook for a moment; until she took a deep breath, shut the textbook, turned off the lights, and let herself drop face-first onto her bed. Forgetting to close the blinds, let alone notice the face on the other side, the shallow breaths fogging the glass as the gloved fingers tried to pry her window open. A squirrel sat on a tree behind the figure, watching. Acorn in hand, he munched furiously, interested in this beast that wore all black, down to the black cape. It, the beast, had its back hunched over against the window, leg shaking, pushing against the dirt on the floor. The squirrel jumped off the tree in search of another snack, and when it came back, the monster was gone. All that remained was a single shoe indent, deep within the dirt. It was noon when Dylan entered Annie's room. She laid face-down on the bed. “Hey Annie,†he whispered, “wake up, wake up.†No response. He raised his voice. “Hey wake up … hey butthead, didn’t you have an exam today?†He got closer to her, finally understanding how they were related– she slept like a bear. Only difference was, she was hairier. He giggled and tapped her shoulder. Nothing. He shook her. Suddenly she woke up in a loud gasp, like someone who had just woken up from an all-consuming nightmare. Dylan flinched back. “WHAT TIME IS IT?!†Annie shouted. “Um, um, it's around noon something, maybe twelve o’ two?†he said. “Shoot, fuck, freak, ahhhhh, I’m late!†“Is there anything I can do to help?†“Let me change, let me change, and, and um, get the car started for me, yeah?†“Okay.†She undressed and jumped into baggy sweatpants, skipping the shirt and throwing on a hoodie. “Fuck fuck fuck. I'm so dumb,†she wailed. She slipped on her shoes, struggling to tie them. As she fumbled with the strings, she noticed the picture frame of her mother on the floor. How did it get down there? On top of it, covering her mothers face, was a small, blue sticky note. She finished poorly tying her shoes, and grabbed the picture, reading the note. She's dead isn't she? Does it make you hurt? The writing wasn’t Dylan’s. It was nothing like she had ever seen– the words were small, sharp, as if the person writing them did it with the force it would take to stab someone. TRRRRR TRRRRR TRRRRR, the alarm on her nightstand rang. Annie startled, jumping to her feet and leaving the picture frame on her desk. She turned off the alarm, hating that she always snoozed it while half-asleep. Without another second wasted, she grabbed her laptop, shoved it into her backpack, and ran outside. “Drive safe butthead,†Dylan said, getting out of the car. “Yeah, I will, I know I'm a bit sleepy so I'll drive as safe as I can, but as quick too. I think they started the test already,†she frowned. She drove cursing at each yellow light, but reluctantly made sure to not take any reds. When Annie got home, Dylan was still on the couch, taking his day off to restart Bojack for the ninth time. She sighed and slumped into the couch next to him. “How'd it go sis?†“Like shit. I got there with 30 minutes left, and the exam had 60 questions. I got through the first 40, multiple choice, but the last 20 were free responses, and I just left them blank. I-I just, I don't even know anymore–†She grabbed one of the blankets next to Dylan and plopped it over her head. “I'm sorry that happened. I wish I could help, but you already know I'm not as smart as you–hell, I'm not even in college.†Her voice was muffled from under the blanket. “That doesn't mean anything. You're still very smart. College doesn't mean anything except regurgitating junk. Being smart is more like being able to manage stress and life … I’m stupid. Not even book smart. Useless smart.†“C’mon, don't say that.†“It's true.†They sat in silence. “Here, go to your room and take a nap. I'll go cook something for us, c'mon. I'll wake you up when it's ready.†“Sure,†Annie said, and slowly got up. Blanket still over her head, she stumbled into a wall, and another, until she finally found the path to the hallway and made her way into her room. It was cold; she wondered when she had opened the window. She took off the blanket and gazed outside, taking in the cold, refreshing air. She noticed a squirrel on a tree branch, directly in her line of sight, and cracked a smile. She wanted to pet it, but it seemed busy, eating away at an acorn, so she closed the window. Better not risk getting rabies, she guessed. Shrugging her shoulders, she went to bed, got on her phone, and began to watch Youtube. Halfway though the first video, she got up to use the bathroom. She went down the hall and entered the small room decorated with different burgundy and purple towels hanging on the racks. The door creaked open as she went in. She sat on the toilet, half-dressed, looking at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the ventilation. She glanced down towards the front of the shower, then looked back when the yellow picture frame on the floor caught her eye. She hunched over, reaching for it. The sticky note from earlier… only now, it had different writing on it. I understand. Life is sorrowful, brutal, depressing. Why even live? Goosebumps covered her thighs. She carefully looked around the restroom, analyzing the small window near the top. No one would ever be able to watch from outside. She placed the frame on the sink, finished her business, and went to wash her hands. As she stood, she thought she heard something behind the indigo shower curtains. Tap–Tap, Tap–Tap. She ran out the restroom and went down the hall towards the kitchen. “Dylan! I think there’s something– someone– in the restroom!†she shouted. Dylan took off an earbud, scratching his hair. “What?!†he responded. “Just come please! I-I'm scared.†He grabbed the sharp knife he’d been using to cut carrots and followed her. Their footsteps echoed as they trudged down the hall. “Where is it coming from?†“Behind the shower curtain.†“Okay, if I see anything, we'll shut the door and call the police.†The sheriff's line from yesterday ran through his head. Nowhere is safe. She stayed outside of the restroom door, giving him space. She didn't want to get too close to him and his carrot cutter. “Do you hear anything?†she whispered. Dylan stayed silent, hands shaking with deep breaths, trying to stay level-headed. He pulled the curtain. Inside, he saw his dirty footprint from when he had taken a shower earlier. That was it. Nothing else. No one else. “There's nothing,†he sighed, feeling the tension release. “Are you sure?†she asked. “Absolutely. You okay sis?†“Yeah … But look at the sink, why was the picture of mom in here? Look, it even has a freaking note on it!†Dylan studied the sticky note, and recognized his sister's writing. Well, it looked like she had written it when she was ten– it was messy, but it was her. He recognized how she wrote her g’s, the bottoms were astronomically large, and he could tell the person wrote each letter from top to down, something his sister did. He thought it was either her or... forget it. He shook his head, rereading the words. I understand. Life is hard, brutal, sad, depressing. Why even live? He didn't realize his sister's depression dated from this far back into her life. “Annie, you wrote this,†he said, pitying. “No I didn't.†“Maybe not, but it looks like your older writing, you know, when you were younger, eight years old? Maybe twelve. You did always hold your pencil wrong, like a baby who just doesn't wanna let go of anything.†She said nothing. Upset, a new pain writhing in the back of her skull. “Maybe you should take that nap, I'm almost done with the chicken noodle soup,†he continued. “Sure.†As she entered her bedroom, picture frame in hand, she noticed it was still cold, and that the window was slightly open. She shut it. Closed the curtains as much as they could, but they pushed away and left a small gap to the outside world. She left the picture frame on her nightstand. And went to sleep. When she woke up, the room was pitch-black. She felt good, rested, but her heart was thumping unreasonably fast. Her breath was shallow, and her arms were cold. She stayed in bed for what seemed like a long minute, her eyes darting across the room to make sure there wasn't anything in there with her. She studied the door, the nightstand, the fan, and when her eyes went to the desk, two cold eyes stared back at her. The pupils were dark, but the white of the eyes burned through her. “Dylan?†she whispered and hoped. No response. “Dylan this isn't funny,†she quietly cried out. “Dylan, please?†And in a moment, she knew her brother would never take a prank this far. The hairs on her arms pricked, and the pressure in her heart caved sharp and deep. She lay there for a minute. Unsure what to do. Turn on the lights, I need to turn on the lights, but then what? What if it really is a big demon, or some sort of rapist, or serial killer?! THEN WHAT?! “I'm not here to hurt you,†his voice carried through the dark. It was quiet, yet loud, like a whisper in her ear. The voice continued, “Quite the opposite. You've been hurt enough, I'm here to save you.†Her eyes widened. There was no fatigue, no fuzzy feeling–she was utterly awake. This wasn't a dream. “C-c-can I turn on the lights?†her breathing irregular. “No, you wouldn't want that. If you see me, we can't talk, we can't fix our problems.†She stayed mute. Watching the eyes in the dark, watching them as they shifted from left to right. They were small, cunning eyes. She had to get Dylan. “Now, do you miss her?†The pressure in her chest doubled. “Who?†“Your mother, dear.†“How do you know about that–†“I asked if you missed her,†his voice sharpened. “Y-yes,†she managed. “And why do you miss her? When did you lose her?†“She's my m-mom. I'm 19, so I lost her … 11 years ago.†“19 is a good age, a ripe age, you should be happy. It's criminal that you're not.†He started laughing, a deep, bellowing laugh that rasped in his throat. She didn't laugh. She noticed a sudden breeze on one of her legs and pulled the blanket over her entire body. Tears were making their way down her face. She needed Dylan. He would save her. How could she get his attention? He had to be in the living room. “How did she pass away?†the eyes asked. “C-car c-crash.†“And who was at fault?†“Her. She made a left turn and forgot to yield.†“So tell me, why do you feel so bad, dear?†“I-I don't.†“Are you sure? Don't lie to me, I've been watching you.†She stiffened, but her hands trembled. “I-I-I distracted her.†Tears were flooding now, cascading down. “Tell me more,†his voice lowered a pitch, demanding. “S-s-she uh, uhm, uhm,†Annie started hyperventilating. Trying to catch her breath as the tears smeared her face. The eyes inched closer. It was only until she could smell the pungent breath that she flinched back. But before she could move away, there was a large hand on the top of her back. She was being held against his chest. “It's okay, it's okay, it'll be over soon, so let it all out,†he whispered. She felt a chill. This wasn't right. She had to get out of here, get Dylan. She felt the man let go. He backed away. There was the sound of something dragging, scraping the floor. She recognized who this was. She had to leave. She had to leave. SHE HAD TO LEAVE. “C-can I go to the bathroom?†she said. “No dear.†“Please. I really can't hold it.†“Will you shut the hell up?!†He got in her face. “You impudent girl, I'm trying to help you. So let me help you.†He muttered, teeth grinding. His eyes were bloodshot, the veins in the white bulging. She stood silent. Scared, understanding that he was a ticking time bomb. Any second he would snap. It was just a matter of when. “Talk,†he slowly said. “Uhm, uhm, okay, uhm, I just can't help, but feel like I killed her. She died, because I was kicking the back of her chair. I thought it was funny, Dad used to laugh when I did it too. But that day, it was only us in the car, and she was waiting to make a left turn. I kicked her chair, and she shot me a warning glance in the rear view mirror, and right after I did it again, she made the left turn. I-I don't know if she saw the car or not, b-but her airbag didn't turn on.†“Good. Goood.†Annie sniffled, trying not to let the mucus fall. She cleaned her nose with a blanket, and instinctively reached for a tissue on her nightstand. The large beast slapped her across the face with unimaginable accuracy, and she fell out of the bed, hitting her head on the counter of the nightstand. The picture frame of her mother tipped over, hitting the ground and shattering. Her forehead was bleeding profusely. She groaned, and her hands raced to her head. “How did it make you feel talking about your mom?†It wasn't a question, but an order. Annie reached her head up and knowing the fiend was close to exploding, she screamed. “DYLANNN!†He stomped on her ankle. There was a crunch, her bones, a sharp pain. Annie grimaced, groaned, and began crawling towards the door. “D-DYLAN PLEASEEE!!!!†“I asked you a question.†“D-Dyl–†Another stomp, a crack, and her other ankle was bent sideways. She shrieked in pain. Louder than she had been yelling. She dragged her lower half to the door handle, tried to reach, tried to open the door, tried to at least warn him, save him. Please, please, please. He got down next to her ear, whispering, “I'm saving you, you poor, depressed girl. Let me give you release, tell me about your mother, your failed exam, your miserable life.†She turned towards him, and with her nails, swiped at his disgusting eyes. She felt her nails dig into his skin, and into his soft, gooey eye. “YOU–UGHH!†he groaned. Annie reached for the doorknob, finally touching it, gripping it. She tried to pull right, tried, and couldn’t. Her arms fell, and she tried again, and, there was a crunch of the bones in her wrist against the door, pushing the door open. Her eyes closed in pain, and she felt the world getting spiny, dizzy, dark. “D-D-DYLAN HEL–†There was a final crunch as her spine bent forward, and snapped in half. Blood gushed out of her mouth. “My poor dear, if only you knew. I sedated him a long time ago, he couldn't help... but don't worry. I did. I saved your poor little soul. At least you went out thinking you saved your big brother's life. Truly admirable.†Hours later, Dylan woke, yawning. Wrapped like a taco, he turned on the TV. “Hey Annie, are you hungry?†he shouted. No response. “Hey Annie!? You there?!†He got up, turned on the lights, and went down the hallway. Tap, Tap, Tap. He saw her, her head laying sideways, blood spilling from her mouth like a broken cup. “OH MY GOD, ANNIE ANNIE ANNIE, SIS, SIS, OH MY GOD.†He threw himself down to the floor, shaking her shoulder, hands covered in blood, until he saw the rest of her. Her back was bent in two directions. “A-A-Annieee…†Tears streamed down his face, mournful, rageful, revengeful tears. He grabbed a kitchen knife, searched the room, but found nothing– nothing except a shattered, yellow picture frame on the floor and an open window. He called the police. Later, on TV, he watched the evening news bulletin: College Student Annie Miller Murdered in Cold-Blood by Stomper, Older Brother Swears He Will Get Revenge.
The Stomper by Kevin Robles
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