Genre Society
April 2026
Issue 8
The
The Genre Society
Issue 8 April 2026 Published by Whitney Mcclelland Cover art "4th Dimension" created by Eugene Han
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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This has been a challenging quarter of the year for me. I have been contemplating life, the universe, and everything, but I think it will take me 7.5 millions years to really understand it all. I've been in deep thought. The school year is nearly over. We have completed and recieved our yearbooks. It is surreal seeing something I've stared at for hours on the screen printed and in my hands. Getting these magazines printed would be a dream, but I'm not exactly bringing in cash enough to afford to print magazines. But if I did, would you, my reader, the one reading this, now, the one who cares enough to read these rambings of my mind, want a magazine? My own first print publication is actually scheduled to be published in May. A story I'm very proud about, and that award winning author James Wade read and complemented. I can't wait for you all to see it online, but they are sending me a physical copy, which is exciting. So we will see. If I could spend more time on this side quest I could justify spending a bit to grow it. But I'm inconsistent and too busy making excuses as to why I don't do it. I digress. Anyway, I really enjoy the cover of this issue, how it looks both zoomed in and out. A student from South Korea sent it in to my email, and while I don't accept email submissions, I did need digital art for the cover this issue. And this one spoke to me. I don't know why. But I wonder about life, the universe, and everything including time. Multiple timelines? If different decisions had been made? Is it even worth dwelling on those things? So I accepted the art and I hope you enjoy it and the rest of the art included in this magazine. The writing, of course, is the art. I hope your year has been alright desipte it all. Let's keep our heads up and keep moving forward. Also, be kind to people. Thank you again for reading and enjoy, Genre Lovers, -Whitney McClelland Editor and Publisher
Letter From the Editor.................................................................................................................................... 5 Poetry The Blind Ghost ............................................................................................................................................... 6 Spectacle Plan .................................................................................................................................................. 8 Laszlo Aranyi Overgrown......................................................................................................................................................... 9 The Pickford Girls....................................................................................................................................................10 Canonical..........................................................................................................................................................11 Megan Mealor Night Bazaar............................................................................................................................................................12 Medusa's Marks.......................................................................................................................................................12 A Floor Du Mall.................................................................................................................................................13 Frank William Finney Fiction Precious...........................................................................................................................................................15 Avram Lavinsky 49 ....................................................................................................................................................................18 Tam Crowe Corps Decept................................................................................................................................................... 20 Luella White I am a Coin-Operated Girl.............................................................................................................................. 25 Margaret Mae Hunting Season............................................................................................................................................... 30 Mark Stucky Lapsed............................................................................................................................................................. 33 Daniel Mosakewicz The Year.......................................................................................................................................................... 45 Corbett Buchly
Greetings Genre Lovers!
Letter from the Editor
Table of Contents
poetry by Laszlo Aranyi
A vak kísértet Reszkető hálót sző önfeledten, hűlt helyén démon-maszk, jade-utánzatú… Reszkető hálót sző önfeledten, bambusz suhog, a mögöttünk álló árnyéka óriás szárnyú falevél zuzmóval benőtt kövön, a Mester suhintja ostoba tanítványát fültövön. Minden inog, csak helyi értéket örökít át A Tao. Egy tálból eszik az összes jövevény, De szájukban elkülönül a táplálék íze: sós----------keserű----------savanyú----------édes, Víz, Levegő, Föld és a Tűz. A nyár a szikkadó Föld mosolya, kísért a kétágú szomnambul-révület, reszkető hálót sző önfeledten. Minden inog, csak helyi értéket örökít át a Tao. A nyár a szikkadó Föld mosolya, a Nap mítoszait magába szívó, jóllakottan böfögő óriás mosolya a nyár. Víz-, levegő-, föld- és tűzjel, egy tálból eszik az összes jövevény, mágikus félelmeket őriz az északi barbároktól átvett szertartás. „Feláldozunk. Húsodat megesszük…” A kijelölt habzó szájjal nyerít a kés láttán, s a kereszt sem alakít új világot… „Odamegyek a vak madárhoz, szólni hozzá…” Bambusz suhog, a mögöttünk álló árnyéka óriás szárnyú falevél, zuzmóval benőtt kövön, a Mester suhintja ostoba tanítványát fültövön.
The Blind Ghost Trembling, it spins its web in self-forgetfulness, in its cooled-off place a demon-mask, jade-imitated… Trembling, it spins its web in self-forgetfulness, bamboo whispers, behind us its shadow a giant-winged leaf on a lichen-grown stone, the Master strikes his foolish disciple behind the ear. Everything wavers; only the Tao transmits local value. All arrivals eat from a single bowl, yet in their mouths the taste of nourishment divides: salty — bitter — sour — sweet, Water, Air, Earth, and Fire. Summer is the smile of the drying Earth, the two-pronged somnambulant trance haunts, trembling, it spins its web in self-forgetfulness. Everything wavers; only the Tao transmits local value. Summer is the smile of the drying Earth, the smile of a giant, bloated and belching, stuffed with the myths of the Sun. Signs of water, air, earth, and fire, all arrivals eat from a single bowl, a ritual borrowed from northern barbarians guards its magical fears. “We sacrifice. We eat your flesh…” The chosen one neighs with foaming mouth at the sight of the knife, and even the cross shapes no new world… “I will go to the blind bird, speak to it…” Bamboo whispers, behind us its shadow a giant-winged leaf on a lichen-grown stone, the Master strikes his foolish disciple behind the ear.
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.
Megan Denese Mealor resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband and 12-year-old autistic son. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and 2023 Best of the Net candidate, her writing has appeared in hundreds of journals worldwide. She has authored four full-length poetry collections: "Bipolar Lexicon" (Unsolicited Press, 2018); "Blatherskite" (Clare Songbirds, 2019); "A Mourning Dove's Wishbone" (Cyberwit, 2022); and “A Cat May Look Like a King” (upcoming from Dancing Girl Press, Summer 2026). A survivor of bipolar disorder, Megan uses her frenetic imagination to keep from going mad.
poetry by Megan Mealor
Spectacle Plan Steaming, sour vomit on the sidewalk: map of Hungary. Wheelbarrow tracks the rivers. Rhinoceros, dense-heavy in cloud armor, the crazy mountain peak. Last commissar sneers. (Crumpled military cap in his lap.) Where he died? Sitting on the toilet.
Látványterv Gőzölgő, savanyú hányadék a flaszteron: Magyarország térképe. Talicska keréknyomai a folyók. Orrszarvú, sűrű-súlyos felhőpáncélban az eszelős hegycsúcs. Vicsorít az utolsó komisszárius. (Gyűrött kincstári tányérsapka az ölében.) Ahol kimúlt: árnyékszék.
Overgrown She twirls her elastic legs in senseless circles, the metallic unsteamed tutu catching twilight. Where to go now but through the groggy forest, shedding intricate Calypso orchids along the way? The scarlet oaks are hushed, a star cluster canopy. She cannot evoke the tempo of his acoustic eyes. Night jasmine and long-armed jonquils chasse, separated by the adagio of one abducted limb. A harvest moon careens like a jilted junebug around a leaden sky laced with September. She will brave unpolished sloping wolves just to bring him back his bubble umbrella.
The Pickford Girls Mary was the baptized ingenue, Lottie always overshadowed by Everybody’s Sweetheart. Playing stylized spitfire, secretaries, and slaves, escaping the weak light of Eastern winters, the Biograph Girl lindy hopped from horseback sandwich boards, promoting Liberty Bonds for the war effort. Mary's railway romance was declared The Marriage of the Century. Her unuttered career was slaughtered by elocution, forcing her into reclusive melodrama, punctuated by Lillian Gish's Broadway visits. Lottie was notable for crude contrasts and gobbling up the cinematic sweepings rejected by her glad rags monument of a sister. Blacklisted and rotten with child, Lottie swilled automotive giggle juice, bellowing, "Everybody, jump into your knickers!"
Canonical Unwatered shutters evince concrete tattoos, scattering murk and wraiths across the parched lawns. Strawberry moons oversee a garage garden, overwintering Rozanne geraniums. Somewhere a timber poolside terrace beams for me, gifting its ebony perfume to glass canopies and endless Black Russians, Jalapeno Margaritas, The Mosaic Project’s sassiest jazz soulmates. Maybe I will be in that coronary cafe to compare heartburns and those wrangled split seconds unliving in the airsick corner. (I foresee shallow graves for the ageless diners dripping with eggshell paint around us.) But this tonight, my knee-jerk technology demands that I polish up on Balanchine ballet, resurrect my kittenish Guaganco rumba, unearth a chirpy Viennese Waltz or betray some intricate lyrical hip-hop, flaunting flamenco’s hand claps, heel stamps, all chestnut climaxes set elegiacally to bones and spoons and scarlet-seared hips.
A Floor du Mall The mannequins looked cold to me, semi-dressed in lingerie for the winter solstice sale en bras. Zombies stood behind the counters. Muzak moved from aisle to aisle when I floated past a herd of shoes and felt the urge to run. But shuffling by the fragrance aisle I caught a whiff and stopped to sniff till the zombies turned their heads my way and I struggled to sniff out an exit.
Medusa’s Marks All the catcalls stopped when she turned her head and one by one the posse of perverts turned to stone. It took merely a minute for the snakes to strike, to my daughter’s relief and my delight. Call it karmic retribution, or whatever you like.
Frank William Finney is the author of the chapbooks Birds in a Boneyard (Bainbridge Island Press, 2025), The Folding of the Wings (Finishing Line Press, 2022) and two collections published in Thailand. His collections Wormwood Punch (Bridge House Publishing) and Preludes to Lethe (Kelsay Books) are forthcoming.
Poetry by Frank William Finney
Night Bazaar Drifting through the floodlit haze, we stopped to look through a box of bones. I haggled for the broken spine. You settled on the skull. By the time we reached the final stall we’d lost our lust for sanity and found our flesh in Bedlam.
Osman chose a table away from the kitchen but not too close to the storefront window and pulled out a chair for Delilah, his heart thumping against the wall of his chest. She sat, placed her phone on the table, and pulled up the video feed from the child monitor app. Her grandmother was slumped on the couch, staring into the glow of the television. “She’s fine,” said Osman. Delilah bit at her cuticle. “Really,” said Osman. “She is.” She looked up and took him in. “You shaved. And you’re hair’s slicked back.” “Of course.” He faked a relaxed smile. “We haven’t had a dinner out in forever.” A photo on the wall showed homes with gelato-colored plaster facades, piled upon each other along the steep Italian coastline. “There’s that peeping Tom around you know,” she said. “I didn’t know.” Delilah pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Some guy’s been watching women and breaking into their homes. So creepy. Seven houses. Seven. And that woman went missing in Ashford.” The waiter came. Delilah ordered the lasagna. Osman ordered clams over linguini and two glasses of Reisling. He ran a hand over his hip pocket to make sure the ring box was still there and cleared his throat. “I’m glad we finally have a moment. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” “Me too,” said Delilah. “Oh… well… you first.” She looked down at the video feed on her phone, and when she looked up, the eyes behind her thick lenses were glassy. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” “I don’t understand.” “I don’t think I can be with you.” “You’re breaking up with me?” The thump of the rabbit in his chest morphed into a stabbing pain. “God. I just feel like I have nothing to give you, still living with my grandma, and what happens when she’s not just ‘sundowning,’ when she’s confused all the time? Do you really want a girl with that kind of baggage?” “If the girl is you, yes.” A mascara-stained tear stole down her cheek. “Delilah, listen, there’s something I’ve been carrying around in my toolbox, waiting for a quiet moment, and–” “Oh my god!” She lifted her phone so he could see the video feed. “Who the hell is that?” On the screen, Delilah’s grandma was on the couch looking up in the direction of the camera, but a pale white hand was reaching toward her. Osman’s F150 flew along the winding county road, catching air as it crested a hill, bouncing as the tires grabbed asphalt once more. Delilah disconnected the call with the 911 operator. “It’s okay. You can slow down.” “What’s going on?” Osman eased up on the gas, the pickup’s high beams probing the dense, tangled forest ahead. “Grandma got confused and called the cops. An officer responded, and that was his hand on the video.” A few minutes later, they rumbled along the dirt driveway toward the little cape-style home, a police cruiser parked out front, lights flashing. Osman brought the truck to a stop behind the cruiser. Delilah sniffled. “Do you see why we have to break up now?” Before he could respond, she said, “Go home, Os.” Then she climbed out and disappeared into the house. Back at his cabin, Osman cut the engine and placed his forehead on the steering wheel. It hadn’t been easy. But he’d found a way, and they could have found a way together. He took up his toolbox from behind the seat, set it on his lap, unlatched it, and flipped open the lid. He shimmied to draw the white ring box from his hip pocket and placed it back in the upper tray of the toolbox. Then he lifted the tray and placed it on the passenger seat. In the well of the toolbox, above the vice grips and the channel locks, was a kaleidoscope of colored and lacy fabric. He lifted the panties, counting all seven, and rubbing each one in turn gently against his cheek. Tomorrow he would return the ring. Maybe later, he’d find an eighth memento somewhere, something nearly as precious.
FICTION
Avram Lavinsky has written twenty-four stories published or accepted for publication in esteemed magazines and anthologies, including The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2023. In 2025, he received the Al Blanchard Award for best New England crime story. His first agented novel is currently on submission.
Precious by Avram Lavinsky
Tam Crowe writes flash and short horror rooted in quiet dread, strange behavior, and things that refuse to stay buried. His stories favor mood over spectacle and leave the worst implications just off the page
49 by Tam Crowe
He called himself an antique hunter. It sounded better than the truth: he was fascinated by places abandoned by people. The Blue Ridge had plenty. Homesteads strangled by rhododendron. Cars rusting, partially buried by earth, bones protruding through soil. Things left behind by those who ran, died, or finally understood. The Old Raven Fork Water Treatment Plant didn’t show up on any trustworthy map– concrete ribs jutted from the trees. Cinderblock stacked four stories high, if you counted the half-buried lower level. No trim. No sign. Just long window slits and rough, empty gaps punched through the walls. The building had lost its teeth and didn’t mind. The woods pressed close. Bare trees crowded the walls. Roots nosed through splintered lumber, rusted metal, and trash gone soft with moss. The building didn’t rule the land. It squatted in it– something that lost the fight and stayed. Inside, the air hit him first. Cold. Damp. Stale. Wet concrete, rotting wood, rust, and a feral undercurrent– damp fur and decayed nests pressed into the walls. The sound was strange. His boots reverberated too long in some directions, vanished in others. Above, loose metal tapped without rhythm. Below, water dripped in a near-pattern before slipping out of sync. He found the hole near what used to be the filtration floor. A rough circle had been punched through the concrete right where the floor met the wall, the edge breaking away as if the building had been hollowed from the inside. There was no strip of floor beyond it– no safe place to stand between the wall and the drop– just a sheer bite taken out of the room. He knelt, aiming his flashlight down. Stone walls dropped farther than they should. The beam followed. Then the light disappeared into a black void, which gave nothing back. No glint. No dust. No hint of a bottom. He shifted his weight back and tested the floor with his heel. Solid. Bad concrete always tells on itself. He’d learned where risk lurked; this wasn’t it. That’s when he noticed the chalk. A number was written on the wall just above the break. Small enough to miss if you weren’t already close. 49. He frowned and bent closer. Squinted. The chalk looked fresh, which made no sense. More writing lay beneath, cramped and tight, like it didn’t want to be seen. He moved closer to read it. Still careful. Still balanced. Way too close. The words snapped into focus. NOSEY LITTLE RAT AREN’T YA? Something moved behind him. A hand– gray, wet, wrong– shot out of the darkness and drove hard between his shoulder blades. He didn’t have time to scream. Gravity took over. The hole accepted him. His scream was a shrill, loud, and hollow, thinning as it ebbed into the dark chasm. As if it had never been. Silence resumed. The room reset itself. The hand wiped the chalk clean with its palm, smearing the number away. Then it wrote a new one. 50.
Luella White is a Buffalo-based author, writer, and poet with one self-published novel and a few chapbooks. She will be graduating college in December of 2026 with a BA in English.
Corps Decept by Luella White
The groundskeeper’s feet pressed against the damp soil. The previous downpour left the old gravestones soaked, though some were quicker to dry than others. The groundskeeper shone his flashlight at the familiar, worn engravings. The task this late at night was to find a burial site for someone who’d passed the day before. Apparently, the family wished to have a service quickly and skip over the wake and the ceremonial rites altogether. Unusual, sure, but not the first time this groundskeeper heard of such a thing. After all, funeral homes were running a racket. Death is expensive. Cutting out the frills, flowers, and fuss probably saved the family a fortune, and maybe that was the deceased’s wish. Either way, groundskeeper Paul had a job to do, and that was to find a spot for the cadaver to rest. Paul did have a spot in mind– a shady corner that almost reached the wrought-iron fence that bordered the yard. A few oak trees surrounded this corner, and at this time of the year, became infested with different types of mushrooms, some with caps, some without. Paul, though he’d been doing this for years, forgot about this until he shone his flashlight towards the spot. “Wonder if he was an outdoorsman,” Paul mumbled to himself. He frequently wondered if the dead appreciated being buried in scenic areas. The living enjoyed them, sure, but would the dead appreciate being eaten up by bugs and plants? Paul took a closer look at the extensive mushroom system. His original idea began to fall flat. The mycelial soil underneath would almost certainly prove to be difficult to dig up. The small cemetery couldn’t fit any heavy equipment for digging like most others did (though Paul often advocated moving some funding towards a nice backhoe). Defined muscles on Paul’s shoulders and back indicated years upon years of shovel-digging precise holes in the ground, although his age crept up on him these days, hence the advocation for the backhoe. Paul somewhat uselessly stared at the mushrooms lit up by his flashlight. He wasn’t necessarily an expert in fungi, but he knew the common ones well enough: puffballs, parasols, and some of what he liked to call “shelving units”, the ones that grew like shelves on damp trees and stumps. Assessing the damage, Paul realized that there were far more than he’d initially thought. “Ah well,” he sighed, “you win this time, little guys.” As he began to stand back up, an unusually shaped mushroom caught his eye. He squinted. The flashlight revealed an uncanny shape protruding from the ground. He’d certainly heard of the fungus known as “dead man’s fingers.” It was a creepy group of long fungal shafts that grew upwards from the ground and sometimes curled around surfaces. But these mushrooms, four appendages completed with a fifth, or “thumb,” seemed to be growing their own mushrooms from the “fingertips.” With a pang of curiosity and no one around to act as surveillance, the man get a closer look at the cluster of dead man’s fingers. He knelt down, popping the aging joints in his legs, and placed the flashlight on the ground in front of him. The mushrooms at the fingertips were thin sprouts of bright orange, no caps to them. They were a vague white at the base, where they sprouted from the grey-blue fungus below. Paul tilted his head, wondering if a carnivorous fungus could cannibalize its own, as insects do with each other. Not being savvy in the ways of fungal behavior, he could only speculate. Still, it was a strange little anomaly that he’d found to amuse himself for all of thirty seconds. “Now for the hard part,” he mumbled. He picked up his flashlight and placed one foot on the ground, hearing a routine “pop” emerge from his knee. He winced and took a little breath. “Goddamn old bones,” he said, placing his empty hand on his thigh as support to lift the rest of him. Another pop. He frowned. His arms never popped. His arms were strong. Paul put his head down to brace himself for the monumental task of standing back up. The flashlight, the little spotlight beam in the nighttime dark, pointed at the fungi again. One of the dead man’s fingers lay flat on the ground. “Oops,” he mumbled. After finally managing to stand up and release all of the joints’ sounds from his body, Paul shone the flashlight at the large group of fungi again, still in mild awe at the extensive clusters growing everywhere, like a fairy’s home where no flowers grew. His eyes moved back to the dead man’s fingers. The index “finger” stood upright again. This time, it twitched. Paul blinked. The finger twitched again. Paul shut his eyes longer and opened them to readjust to the surrounding darkness. The index finger moved erratically, curling, tapping, and convulsing like a fly on the verge of death. Paul’s breath became quicker as he watched every tiny movement. The other fingers very slowly followed the index, and they began steadily and carefully grasping at the earth, sliding due to the lack of proper grip. When they sunk into the earth, they made a distinct snap, like a thick broken twig. “Jesus!” Paul gasped, springing back a step. He watched intently as the fingers dug into what was now loosening soil. They began to twitch again, each one moving independently from the rest, still close to one another. After a few tense seconds of flailing fungi and stomach churning, Paul turned and ran back to the groundskeepers’ cabin. “Jim! Jim, c’mere!” he cried as he ran away. The fingers broke from the ground, revealing a full, gray hand, sprouting multiple orange stalks from every angle. “You’ve been doin’ this how long and you’re scared now?” Groundskeeper Jim said as his terrified colleague pulled him by the arm. “I’ve never seen some shit like this,” Paul said breathlessly. “And who would have believed it without me showing someone?” Jim didn’t answer as they weaved through the cemetery. As they got closer to the tree, Paul screeched to a halt. Jim almost tumbled into him. “Holy shit,” Paul whispered, his voice a gasping wheeze. “Look.” Jim squinted at Paul’s shaky flashlight beam. The gray fingers gripped at the trunk of a very small, thin tree behind it. They were attached to a hand of the same color, and the hand was attached to a thin, bony forearm. Orange sprouts covered it all, pointing towards the sky. “What the hell is that?” Jim asked, his voice trembling. “Seriously. What the hell kind of joke is this, Paul?” “Joke? You think I’d be sick enough to dig up some poor bastard for a joke?” Paul answered sharply, never turning his attention from the hand. “Look! Look! It moves!” Indeed, the fingers were now slowly curling and clumsily grasping at the wet bark of the tree. The disturbed soil crumbled a bit around the base of the forearm, with worms and grubs all throbbing as they attempted to squirm their way back into the ground. The palm of the hand slowly slid down as the fingers struggled to get a grasp on the thin tree trunk. For a moment, Jim recalled gardening videos of vines creeping their appendages around a fence post or stick, inching its way closer to the sunlight. “Like a plant,” he breathed. “That movement looks like a plant.” The hand crackled and shed off the dirt and ash of rot as it twitched. The pointer finger reached as high as it could, acting like a slug as it climbed the folds of bark. The finger caught a notch in the bark and hoisted up the rest of the hand, then stretched again in an inchworm-like fashion. More dirt crumbled at the base of the dead arm; a sickening sign of something more to come. “What do we do?” hissed Jim. “What the hell do we do?” “How the hell should I know?” Paul replied. “Do we shove it back into the ground?” “Maybe,” Jim said, and immediately grabbed the deceased arm with his own gloved hand. “Come on, don’t make me do this alone!” he shouted upon seeing Paul’s hesitation. Jim let out a shocked cry. The dead arm now gripped at the man’s wrist. Jim yanked and tugged but the hand had a firm, oddly even grasp. The more he tugged, the more snaps filled the once-quiet nighttime air. “Paul!” he yelled. The shouting kicked the older man into high gear, and he grabbed his colleague’s other hand, pulling him in the opposite direction. The dead arm had an iron grip on Jim’s wrist. Paul felt like he was playing tug-of-war with a big dog and clenched his teeth. There wasn’t any chance that something so delicate could be so strong. Paul wondered if his arms were giving out, tugging his colleague even harder. “Ow!” Jim cried as something popped. The man tumbled backwards. “You okay Jim? Did I pull too hard?” Jim, still facing away from Paul, breathed heavily, then turned, his eyes wide. He held up his wrist and shook it, but the dead hand and arm remained latched on tightly. Paul grabbed at the limp corpse arm and pointed his flashlight at it. Sprouting from the bottom were not human remains, but an intricate white network, all stuck on to the inside of the limb as though they were human veins. The white throbbed and shrunk from the broken-off ends. “Mycelium,” Paul muttered. “That’s mushrooms.” “Mushrooms don’t have hands, dumbass,” Jim said, using his other hand to free the corpse’s grip. “We gotta leave, we gotta call the police or something, come on, man!” Paul’s eyes were staring back on the ground, scanning for the types of mushrooms that covered the soil. When his beam of light touched that spot, he realized that the soil was now rising and falling, or maybe breathing. Something began to emerge from the soil, revealing the mycelial swirls and veins writhing around it. Jim took off into the dark. “Paul, you fucking moron, let’s go!” he called without looking back. Paul kept his flashlight on the soil, frozen. He prayed, begging that it was nothing more than a few moles or racoons or something under that patch of infected dirt. The soil continued to crumble. Roots ripped as the thing emerged, struggling to find its strength. A human ribcage, with patches of rotten skin dotted around it, loosed itself from the soil. The rest of the “skin” was substituted with white, throbbing mycelium. The other arm, stuck to the chest, began to tear itself free from the ribcage, ripping away some of the mycelial skin. The other hand laid limply in the dirt before creeping up the tree trunk, the fingers twitching to reach the top. Paul bit his lip as he slowly moved the flashlight beam to the upper part of the ribcage. A mummified human skull, eye sockets and jaw full of dirt and white veins, broke through the surface of the soil. Paul screamed as the figure’s other arm began pulling the rest of the body from the ground using that same thin tree trunk.
I am a Coin-Operated Girl by Margaret Mae
Margaret Mae is an emerging horror author from Minneapolis, Minnesota. With deep roots in the American Midwest, Margaret's work focuses on the LGBTQ+ experience within those communities, and the innate beauty and horror of being an Other.
I am born into the world with the taste of your lips on my tongue. I know that this was a design choice, implemented to make the bonding process feel more romantic, but all the same the gears beneath my die-cast ribs whir and clank as I feel you move against me. I take in the saliva sample and just like that, I am yours. You pull back once you hear the vial click into place in the back of my throat. Your eyes are a starlit, dusky blue and I am lost in them already. You smile at me. The reels of poetry and tender words flutter in the curve of my chest, and I part my newly-formed lips to speak to You, my love. “I am here, and I am yours.” Your eyes widen. I know you chose my voice from a selection of hundreds, and it was installed in me to fall softly on your ears. You giggle, and reach out to touch my face. I lean into your hand like a dog. “My word, you’re so warm.” You say, and it is so sweet. “I didn’t expect a machine to feel so... human? I suppose? Unless that’s a silly thing to say.” “I was made to please you.” I say, and reach out my hands. They are finely wrought, beautiful things, but they look coarse compared to your delicate waist. I wrap them around You, pull You close. This is what I was made for. You start. Sigh. Melt into me. I am whole. I kiss you, I learn your wants and your rhythm, I respond to the subtle cues of your body to become your perfect lover. Slow, gentle, but pressing– that is what You like. You are soft and lovely and your hair is like the finest spun silk. I twine it around my fingers. The oil that slicks the gears of my body is becoming hot and so are You. I breathe into your ear and feel your body tense around me as I begin to pull you towards your bed. “Wait!” You stop me. What have I done to displease You? Did I go too quickly, misread your wants? Am I calibrated imperfectly, a factory floor reject, unworthy to love You? But no, You are kind and You are loving and You dig into a velvet purse with a smirk twisting your rosebud lips. You pull out a handful of golden tokens, and move your clever hands to the back of my neck. My hair is pulled aside, hair chosen just for You, and the tokens are pushed one by one into the small slot at the top of my spine. I shudder as they clink down into my belly. “Sorry, I just didn’t want us to be interrupted.” You say, and pull me close again. I am lost in You. The next time I am awoken, You are resplendent in organza and brocade. A ball gown of an almost electric blue is pinned and pressed around your every curve, hugging the slope of your hips before fluttering down to the floor. You are shy, eyes lowered to the floor as you ask me. “What do you think?” I am reeling. My stores of poetry are infinite, Byron and Coleridge and all the romantics, but none are enough to describe your beauty. I struggle to find the proper words in the correct order, and my tongue stutters. “You– you– you–” You giggle again, a sparrow’s trill. “Tongue-tied already?” “You are re- re- resplendent. The blue is–” “But is it fashionable, you think? The ball is in ten days so there’s time to take it back to the dressmaker if need be.” I churn, I process. I know little of fashion, having only seen You. I see your brow quirk and furrow as my pause lingers on, and I begin to worry that I have upset you again. I find nothing in my insides to say, so I reach out to touch You instead. You smile and lean into my hand, and I am at ease again. Being with You is bliss. Each day your slender fingers pull a token from the little pouch, and my eyes open to the sensation of it falling through my throat and into my core. Some days we talk. You tell me of your life outside, of the parties and friends that decorate it. I whisper love into your ear and hold You close while you tremble and sigh. Other days, You sink into my embrace and we lose hours, punctuated only by the tender noises I pull from You and the clink of the tokens. It is a long while, I think, before I start to ache. I know that my copper joints require oiling, the tokens require collecting from my belly, and that my skin and hair need to be steamed regularly to remain supple for You. I wonder what it is, exactly, that is making me hurt. I ask You, pulling away from your lips. You are ravenous today, pulling at me with a hunger that makes my gears whir and thunk with excitement. I pull the reel of troubleshooting phrases into my chest and load it into my voice box. “This unit requires maintenance. Please refer to the included user instruction booklet for assistance.” I cringe at the formality of the words, and I see your bright eyes dim. You pull all the way back and look at me. I hope I am still to your liking. “You’re broken already? It’s only been a few months.” I search the reel for a response, but there isn’t one. I am stuttering again, gears creaking for lack of oil, trying to arrange the words correctly. “This unit requires main- main- te–” “Ugh, and you can’t even speak properly. You know, I should return you for not being as advertised. You were supposed to be a steadfast companion, and I was never supposed to worry about love again!” Oh, my chest. I am searching through the reels for anything to say, to beg your pardon and make You smile again. I try one of your favorites. “Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes–” “Enough with the poetry. I’ve heard enough Keats for a lifetime, ugh!” You turn on your heel and leave me all alone. I stare at the door, at the empty room, and wish for You to come back until I fade away. I can feel the wrongness this time, from the moment I open my eyes. A token, it must be the one you’ve just put into me, is stuck at the top of my throat. It burns against the heated copper tubing. You do not seem to notice the ache in me. Your lips and hands are all over my body, and you are pulling me towards the plush bed. I try to speak, but you do not listen. You shush me, and your lovely mouth covers my own, begging for me to touch you. Of course, my darling. I love You. I do not fade away as I usually do, and this you do notice. “Why aren’t you going to sleep? I have a party to attend this evening and I can’t wait around much longer.” I struggle to find the words, as always. Curse my clumsiness. “Stuck.” I manage, and gesture towards the top of my spine. It feels as if the token is melting inside me. “Well, I can’t very well stuff you in a waistcoat and take you with me, can I? That would be mortifying.” Your giggle is twinkling, sweet in my ears. “You’ll just have to wait here, and if you’re still broken when I return, well. I’ll just have to take you back to the Livery tomorrow.” You leave me again. I listen to the sounds of fabric swishing, one of your lovely gowns no doubt, and the faint melody of a dance you must be playing on a gramophone. A tarantella, I think. Other voices join you as I writhe, unseen, on the other side of the door. I hear them so close, and I hear your dear little giggle. I long for You. “Oh, you wicked thing, I want to see–” “No, no, leave it alone! I’m going to get it replaced anyway.” “I’ve always wanted one. Ugh, my very own tick-tock Romeo, how divine! Or, I suppose in your case, a Juliet–” “Oh stop it you! It is an it, a nothing! It can’t even do its job properly!” “Well, let us at least see it before you send it back, is she pretty?” Your voices fade, and I hear the door close far beyond. The burning has turned into an agony. I wonder if I will just stay awake forever now, twisting in your satin sheets. I wonder too, if you will come back. I want to feel your cool hands on my hot skin, see your eyes glitter in the dark. I want calm, kind words. But I am unworthy. I am broken, and why would someone as perfect as You love a broken thing? I need to be fixed. My skin is tough, designed to withstand roughness and passion, but the metal beneath my fingers is tougher. I tear at the softness beneath my chin, pulling and rending until I feel the swell of hot oil between my fingers. I begin to dig. Tubes crunch and spit. Wires fray, sparking as I twist them free. The oil begins to spill down my chest, staining your expensive bedding. I heave myself to the side with a forge-bellows groan and fall in a heap onto the floor. I must not make a mess. I can feel the token, still burning in the back of my neck. The wires in my throat arc and snap where they touch copper, and I begin to worry that the oil will catch fire. I should be quick. My right arm has stopped working, so I thrust the left ever deeper into the wound that was my throat. I can feel the pipe, I am touching the plating that attaches it to the base of my skull. That is where the flaw is, where the token is melting into me. I am so close. But the pipe is slick with bilge, and my fingers are growing weak. I cannot grasp it. I lay back in the ever-widening puddle of my own insides and try to force them in, through the plates and to the place where I am broken. I will be fixed, I will be whole and perfect again, worthy. The gears in my chest begin to screech and shudder. I am hot, and hurt, and I ache. One last shove, ripping through the webbing of wire that wreathes my skull, and my fingers at last close around the copper pipe. I think of You. I pull.
Mark Stucky has degrees in religious studies, pastoral ministry, and communications. He worked for decades as a technical and freelance writer. He has documented diverse technology products and written articles, stories, and poems on a variety of topics, winning four dozen publication awards. See more at cinemaspirit.info.
The hunter’s keen eyes peered through the prickly green bushes at the excellent specimen. He watched, fascinated, as the female walked on two legs out of its lair to a small rectangular pond. The new species of mammalian female abruptly molted all its fur except for the long silky hairs on the top of its head. Now only smooth white skin was exposed to the hot noon sun. He had never heard of any animal being able to molt so quickly. He watched as it fell asleep beside the watering hole. Obviously, this species had few fears of predators. After growing tired of watching inactivity, he lined his sights upon his quarry’s creamy chest. His finger touched the cool metal of the trigger– but then he paused. Too easy. Shooting a sleeping animal was hardly sporting. Although some of his hunting buddies would have shot anyway, he thought any animal deserved at least a chance to run. Leaping over the hedge, he landed on a smooth, light-gray, rock-like surface that shuddered from his impact. Again, he brought his gun to bear. Startled, the female opened its eyes and sat up. Its eyes widened. It screamed and scrambled to its feet. His gun’s single incandescent blast hurled the female backwards into the water. The resulting splash shattered the still, clear liquid. The body briefly touched bottom and then slowly, lifelessly, bobbed to the surface. A male rushed out of the large rectangular nest nearby. It froze, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at the hunter. Leveling his weapon at the male, the hunter fired as the male ducked. The burst went through the open entrance and blew a hole in the far side of the dwelling. The male plunged back inside, yanking the rectangular hatch shut. In three bounds the hunter arrived at the locked entrance. His single powerful kick tore the wooden panel off its pivots. Extending his gun, he ducked his head and jumped inside. In the cramped interior, six chemical explosions deafened his sensitive ears, and five metal projectiles ricocheted off his armored jacket. The sixth shot, however, found a joint in his armor. The hunter flinched as the lead slug grazed the side of his neck, leaving a bloody groove in his fur. Bellowing in pain and anger, the hunter fired. The first shot dismembered a fabric-covered seat. The second smashed the male against a wall. Several more shots pulverized the male’s body beyond recognition. The hunter raged out of the dwelling, vaulted over a tall fence, and landed in front of another building. He saw two frightened faces in a square viewport. Selecting full-intensity-auto on his weapon, he sprayed the shelter from one side to the other with pulsating thunderbolts until the roof collapsed onto the smoking rubble. Leaping over another barrier, the hunter landed on a smooth roadway. A wheeled vehicle screeched just a few jumps-distance in front of him. Its flashing lights and loud noise further irritated his sensitive vision and hearing. A male flung open the vehicle’s hatch, crouched behind the vehicle, and pointed a long-barreled weapon at the hunter. But the hunter fired first. The male’s partially exposed head exploded, and the body fell across the twisted barrel of the shattered gun. The hunter fired at the noisy vehicle until the volatile fuel tank detonated in a thunderous fireball. He turned his fire on a dozen other domiciles within range of his weapon. Disintegrating walls and collapsing roofs buried dying creatures in the debris. His rage finally spent and his weapon’s energy source nearly drained, the hunter bounded back to the first nest he had encountered. He pulled the female out of the water by a hind leg. Though the lingering smell of the chlorine-tainted water offended his sensitive nose, this female’s pelt was the one least damaged. Shifting his weapon to his left hand, he slung the damp, limp body over his shoulder away from his wound and continued hopping toward his landing site in the woods. As he arrived in a small meadow, he nudged a button on his belt. For an instant, the air shimmered, and trees on the far side of the clearing seemed to tremble and twist. Then the slender conical spacecraft emerged into view as its camouflage screen shut down. The ventral antigravs glowed a rich, dark orange as the craft hovered just above the grass, leaving no track. As he threw the female carcass through the triangular hatch, the hunter’s peripheral vision detected movement. He whirled around, fumbling for his weapon. A small, brown, furry creature watched him from the edge of some bushes. The hunter gazed in amazement. Except for its small size and lack of flexible fingers the animal was a virtual copy of himself with long ears, strong hind legs, and luxurious brown fur. Lowering his weapon, the hunter observed the leporid until it hopped back under cover. After sealing the hatch, the hunter re-engaged the camouflage screen and switched from hover to drive mode. The craft quickly punched through the planet’s atmosphere and then swiftly and silently accelerated toward a distant pinprick of light. As he tended his wound, the hunter pondered this rare find. All wild game on his own planet had been hunted to extinction centuries ago. Species on most other known planets had eventually suffered the same fate. But this small, low-gravity planet he had stumbled across teemed with game. This apex quarry, moreover, could fight back. With the pain of his wound wearing off, the hunter felt invigorated by the added danger. Weekend hunting expeditions were expensive, but such thrills justified the price. On his next trip to this blue-green planet, he would be more alert. Next time he would bring back more trophies. Next time he would bring his buddies.
Hunting Season
by Mark Stucky
“I thought you were lapsed.” “Still Catholic.” Diane bit into the pizza slice dangling in her hands. Her hair, its natural black, almost hid the silver ankh in her left ear. One of the restaurant’s three light strips buzzed. The pizza sauce next to her lip like lumpy lipstick. “Would the church agree with that?” “Fuck the church. I didn’t ask for the guilt, and if I have to live with Cathilic fucking guilt I’m going to at least claim to be Catholic. As if that means anymore more than belonging to a fucked up book club.” We were alone. I leaned back and tried to look like I wasn’t staring at her. My half of the large pizza long gone. “Do you really want to drag me into this?” I asked. “It isn’t for God, if that’s what you mean.” She folded her arms over her chest, shrinking into the torn leather booth. “Then why?” My stomach rolled. “There’s a murderer stalking a church, Sebastian. Isn’t that enough?” I sighed. “Just making sure we’re going after the real bloodsuckers.” She nudged the last slice of pizza towards me. “Are you ever going to say no to me?” We both knew the answer. The churches up North feel weird to me, especially the Catholic ones. Catholic churches in the South are low and wide, like someone hiding in the grass. Up North, they’re tall and pointy, all European-like. Crammed between a grocery store and a skyscraper, this one was like that, but thinner; growing upwards like a penis the obelisk-building Egyptians would’ve appreciated. A big fella, with a round middle and stocky arms, ran a weed-whacker over dying grass. He stopped, stared at me, shrugged, and went back to work. Down the street, people in upper-middle class costumes escaped to lunch breaks. On a brick building corner, a man sat, staring into a place which was not there. Sighing, I crossed onto church property, pleasantly surprised I didn’t burst into flames. The doors were shut against the winter cold and folks like me. Inside was a different world. All stone and light and angles, kinda like a city, but not. Cities try to smooth themselves out, to make the eyes slide over them, the only bumps along the skyline. This was an internal world. A world where outside was chaos and the only escape far above. A monument to divinity dreamed and built by mortals. Someone kneeled in the pews, a scarf over their hair. My footsteps echoed. One of the doors past the pew opened. Out stepped the priest. Bald, with wisps on the side. Almost scholarly. I headed for the pew. The preacher stepped forward. More wrinkles appeared in his face. The woman in the scarf looked up before returning to her prayer. “Can I help you?” he said. “I’d like a few moments of your time, if you could spare it.” His eyes narrowed at the accent. The hand reaching up in blessing froze. “I always have time for those with a curiosity for scripture.” I gave the same smile the snake gave Eve. “It’s somethin’ like that.” “The police have already been by.” “I ain’t police.” His face twisted. “I don’t talk to quacks.” “You don’t ever talk to yourself? Don’t worry, father. Everybody does it.” “Get out,” said the priest. So I did. “You’re out quick.” The groundskeeper leaned against his shovel. Sweat beaded his face. The frost on his beard made him look like Santa. “Most people ain’t?” He waved at the doors. “Mrs. Hunsburger’s been there since 9am. Guess I need to remind her to eat.” “Mighty good of you.” “Somebody’s got to do it.” “Somebody always does.” He looked me over one more time, then nodded. “See you soon.” I didn’t like knowin’ he was right. “Why am I not in the least bit surprised you got thrown out of a church?” We’re crammed onto the tiny couch of her apartment, shoulder to shoulder. It was late. The Seventh Seal queued on the TV. A large bag popcorn on Diane’s lap. I reached over, just to be closer. “Because you know me. That’s all.” Her smile turned upwards, teasing-like. “I thought an exorcism would banish you.” “Wrong movie.” She looked, unable to tell if I was joking. “Are you quitting?” she asked. “Do you want me to?” “No.” “Then no.” “Knew you’d be back.” The groundskeeper looked up from the statue he was cleaning: a man sitting on a rock with a bunch of birds on his shoulder, like Snow White. “Guess so.” He stood. The red rag in his hand clashed with the dead plants. “You aren’t doing this for you, are you?” His breath frosted. “Beg your pardon?” “Someone else thinks you should be here. Not you, but you love them enough to try.” A truck carrying enough coal in it to drown in, beeped as it backed into the road. “You’re real wise for a gardener.” He shrugged. “I see everybody the father does, usually, and I hear all his sermons too.” “But you ain’t him.” “Well, I guess I’m a little less judgmental.” We both grinned. Sirens whirled. Somebody honked. “Name’s Mike.” He peeled off his gray glove and extended a hand to me. “Like the archangel?” “My father never specified.” “Fathers seem to have a habit of doing that. I’m Sebastian.” We shook hands. His skin was tough. Dirt hung under his nails. “You want to come inside for a while, Sebastian?” “The father wouldn’t have a problem with that?” “Not unless he wants the weeds to take over Saint Francis, and I suspect he likes that statue more than he likes any of his parishioners. Come on, I’ll make hot chocolate.” The break room was aggressively tan. All its appliances were a decade old. A fold-out table in the corner, with matching chairs. I sat. Mike rummaged through the cabinets. “You’re new to the area, I take it?” “Something like that.” He poured two mugs of milk, set one in the microwave and hit the timer. “Chasing something?” I smiled. “I thought we’d established that.” “We did. Just wanted to cover our bases.” “And you?” The microwave dinged. Mike swapped the cups, set the timer, then went about stirring the coco blend into the first cup. “I’ve been here a long time. Long enough that it feels like sometimes I forget there’s other places.” He paused, lifted the spoon out of the milk. “No, that’s not it. I know there’s amazing things and amazing people out there. I just forget I’m a part of it, if that makes any sense?” “Plenty.” The microwave dinged again. Mike sighed. He brought the steaming mug he’d finished stirring and set it in front of me. I nodded. After a moment, Mike stood, stirring his cup. “There’ve been some murders here,” Mike said, not looking up. “Really?” “Three in the last two months. Father Andrews managed to keep the first one pretty well under wraps, but the second one made it impossible.” I blew on my hot chocolate. “You sound doubtful.” “Three dead bodies doesn’t mean three murders.” His stare was far away, and his hands held on so tightly to the mug cracks appeared near the top. Hot chocolate, burning hot chocolate, ran onto his hands. He didn’t flinch. The door opened. The preacher stood in the doorway, his face red and his nose twitching. “Michael, what is the meaning of this?” “I’m taking my coffee break, Father. We're having hot chocolate. I can make you a cup, if you’d like.” “This man has been banned from the parish grounds!” He turned to me. “Sir, I’m going to ask you to leave once, then I’m calling the police.” “Go ahead father, put your motive on record for when I turn up dead. Save those taxpayer dollars.” I stood. Glanced once more at the scalding hot chocolate running down Michael’s hand. “Here, preacher, have my hot chocolate. See you around, Michael.” He winced. “See you, Sebastian.” I stopped in the main room on the way out, and checked out the stained glass windows. Some scenes I recognized: Jesus with the cross and all that. A few I didn’t. Two of the dude with the birds. A cough. Mrs. Hunsburger sat in the pews. Same spot as the day before. She looked around, like she’d done something wrong. Her eyes met mine, then narrowed. I left. We were back on her couch. Opposite ends. Diane pulled up something on her phone with a folder tucked under her arm, me with one arm thrown over the side and my legs pulled up to my chest. I wanted to sit up and slide over, would’ve been easier, but I didn't. “Here.” She tossed me the phone. “Those are the articles on the murders,” she placed the folder in front of my feet. “Here’s copies of the police reports.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’d you manage these?” “I went to school with someone on the force. They copied me in history, I get police records.” “Not bad.” The copies were good, really good. “Are they ignoring this case?” “The opposite. That’s why these are copies.” “No shit.” The pictures underwhelmed me. No weird symbols, no obvious lack of blood, no insane claw marks. Just three people laying on the church floor. Not even in the same spot. An old woman, a middle-aged man, and a young boy who wouldn’t hit teenager. “I don’t get it.” “Neither do the pigs.” “Why me? You have all this, you might actually be able to blend in like you belong.” “It’s a church, Sebastian.” “So? We both know almost nothing in that book is right.” “Call it superstition.” “Fine. Now we’re left with three people dead in a church with no connecting marks. Unless there’s something in the autopsies.” I flipped through the papers. Outside, someone honked for a long time. “There’s no marks.” She stopped me on the right pages, let me scan them as she folded her arms and tapped her foot. Of course she was right. No marks on any of them, like they’d just collapsed. All three died of heart failure. Only the middle-aged man had a pre-existing condition. All three of them with their eyes open, like they’d been scared to death. “Oh shit.” Diane smiled. “Now you see it.” The pawn shop looked like a hoarder’s house. Guns and posters on the wall; most of them behind the counter. A box of old video games beside three boxes of books. Trinkets everywhere. A TV lay against a stack of boxes near the office. Baseball blared. The man behind the counter, who looked like Stephen King in the 80s, narrowed his eyes and blew out a cigarette. “Howdy, Trick,” I feigned interest in the useless shit by the door. “How long have you been in town, Sebastian?” “Too long.” “Surprised you didn’t come see me sooner.” He took a long puff on his cigarette. I grinned. “Took longer than usual for trouble to find me.” A crack came from the TV. I started, reaching into my coat. The announcer got excited. Trick smirked. I drew my hand free. “That bad, huh?” he said. One eye stayed glued to the screen. “Might be.” I thumbed through another box of CDs. Most of them religious or modern country. “Still got that mask?” “Nope. Sold it a while ago. Some weird collector.” He picked up a duster from under the counter and ran it along the till, leaving a line in the display case. “Come on, Trick. Why not?” “Told you. I sold it.” “Trick.” I pointed to the duster. “You’re cleanin’.” He froze. Looked down. “Fuck.” He set the duster aside. “Do you really need it?” “Seems that-a way.” A man with a beer gut entered the shop. He looked at me, looked at the guns in the walls, looked at Trick with disappointment, then left. Trick glanced around. “Fine.” I picked up “What you want for it?” “Money, asshole.” “Ain’t got much money.” Trick huffed. He scooped the remote up and brandished it at me. “For a poor country man, you sure make it around a lot.” I shrugged. “Good friends and bad habits.” “Then I want a favor.” “No.” He stepped round the counter. “Come on, Sebastian. There are rules.” “Not that. Not carte blanche.” The remote felt more dangerous than the guns. “But it needs to be something good. You pawned this mask to me. I have paperwork. There’re rules, remember?” I stood straighter. “That’s why I’m askin’, not just takin’.” “Alright.” Trick put the remote on the counter and started messing with old monitors. “How about you tell me what’s such a problem you need this mask. If you’re really so broke, I don’t see how you have much of a choice.” He was right, and I hated him for it. This was bad, but anything else would be worse. If I was fast, the people Trick would call wouldn’t have a chance to fuck me over. It weren’t much, but it was something. I let it sit, just to make Trick stew, but not long. “Those church murders ain’t murders.” “Three dead bodies in two weeks and it isn’t someone killing? Alright then, so what is it then, a gas leak? Don’t give me that cover-up nonsense.” I smiled, showin’ all my teeth. “What can I say, Trick? It’s kind of like a gas leak.” Trick’s face twisted, bit his tongue, then laughed. “One of these days, Sebastian, someone’s going to cut your goddamn tongue out.” “Not you though.” Trick shook his head. He headed behind the counter. “No. Not me. But somebody.” A few minutes later, he emerged with the mask. Pale bone sculpted into round cheeks and flowing antlers. Both eyeholes large enough to stick an arm through. Whole thing looked like a bloated deer. Both of us stared for a moment, it hangin’ off Trick’s hand. “I hate this fucking thing.” “You and me both,” I said. “You and me both.” The church was still open, technically. Shadows of the buildings dropped probably another ten degrees. Clouds gathered. The statue of the fella with the birds stared at me out of the corner of his eye. I flipped him another bird for his collection. The door didn’t budge. I knocked. Nothing. A couple passed by the church. Both of ‘em snuck a look at the mask and kept walkin’. I knocked again. It started to snow. None of it stuck. My gut turned and my hands moved. From inside my jacket, I pulled a key pale as bone, with the body shaped as a spine and topped with a shrunken skull. The sockets widened in the last sunlight. “Finally. I thought you were stupid,” said the skull, its words a grinding chatter. “Shut up.” At the end of the spine were two teeth, jagged and sharp. Once, there’d been seven. “Breaking into a church, huh? What happened? Did you find religion only to realize not even God would take you?” I put the key up to the lock. It didn’t look so different, the history carved onto bone the same as the history carved into the wood of a church. “If there is a God, I’m tired of cleanin’ up His mistakes.” The skull laughed its rattling laugh, as I settled it into the key-hole. “How predictably arrogant.” “Arrogant don’t mean wrong.” If empty eyes could roll. “Are you going to use the bone or what?” It fit perfectly into the doorway to this holy place. The pieces of perhaps the craziest motherfucker to play the escape game. The key turned until hitting a satisfying click. One bone left. “Soon enough,” said the skull. “Not yet.” I slipped the key into my pocket and hoped I wouldn’t see it again for a long time. Slightly ajar, the darkness behind the door beckoned. No use waiting’ around. Inside was darkness shattered only by small lights filtered through stained glass, reflecting their piece-by-piece pictures on the chapel floor. All the pews were empty. Jesus dying for somebody’s sins up behind the pew. He looked tired. I had to find Mike. No sign of the preacher, or Mrs. Hunsberger. I strolled through the nave, round the altar and to the hall leading to the parish hall. “Please!” I started running. I found them in the pale light of all mediocre break-rooms. The preacher trying to put himself between Mrs. Hunsberger and Mike, but not doing a very good job of it. Despite her size, she threw the preacher to the side and lunged to grab Mike’s shirt. “I beg you! I know who you are! You can bring her back, please! The others didn’t have the faith I do!” she yelled. “You’re mad!” screamed Father Andrews. His face tightened. “Mad!” Mike backed into the corner, his arms held out like a child warding off vegetables. “Please,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I’ll make you!” screamed Mrs. Hunsberger. Father Andrews tried again to be useful. Mrs. Hunsberger shoved him. He stumbled back over one of the fold-out chairs, sprawling on his back. She turned her nails like talons on Mike, taking whatever flesh she could. Arms, mostly. “Stop!” Mike froze, saw me, his eyes wide. The pause earned him a slash on his cheek, deeper than the others. First just more crimson, then gold, seeped from the wound. “Please!” screamed Mrs. Hunsberger. She saw the blood, honed in on it like a shark, thrashing and clawing, biting Mike’s hands when they got close. “Leave me alone!” wailed Mike, bringing his gashed arms up. “I can’t hold back!” Golden light pulsed from the wounds, searing more skin off from the inside out. I had to cover my eyes. Mrs. Hunsberger fought on. She caught Mike in the gut. Another golden beam pushed me back. The mask’s chill crawled into my bones. It knew what was coming. I ran for Mrs. Hunsberger, my arm extended. You have to believe me. I tried. But I got scared. The bone mask slid over my face. Cold. Eager. I saw past the glow, past the light. Into the wounds. Mike screamed. His feet left the ground. The glow spread. His skin melted, dripping onto the floor. Mrs. Hunsberger fell on her ass and stared up at this thing above her. The preacher still knocked out over a chair. “Close your eyes!” The sound of the light, a deep glowing pulse, shoved everything away. Beneath Mike’s skin was a collage of golden weapons and spitting flames. Its shape infinite and rigid. A wrapping of chains around a star. Perfect. Wrong. Revealed, Michael’s eyes, in the middle of the inferno, widened. Mrs. Hunsberger lay where she fell. Wide-eyed. Terrified. Dead. He turned to me. Fists clenched, legs spread. You’re not dead. “Nope.” The mask. “Bingo.” He turned, every edge of his impossible form shifting, looking at Mrs. Hunsberger. “It’s usually threes with your side, ain’t it?” I did not mean to. I– Anger flowed out of him like lava. The others saw only a fraction. Not enough to awaken me. I didn’t know. I was just a man. Helpless. How can I be held accountable– “Funny, folks like me tend to say the same thing before they get thrown away.” I shoved my shaking hands in my pockets. “Unless you was down here already servin’ some kinda punishment.” I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be human. I wanted to be something different. Is that so wrong? Do you dare judge me, magician? All the fire spinning inside Michael changed directions. I smirked. Michael turned. Heat pulsed. Leave this place if you want to live. “You leave. This place was nothing more than another disappointment ‘til you came along.” You are an intruder. “Mister, so are you.” Another long moment. Michael looked at Mrs. Hunsberger again. See to her burial. It sighed, sounding for the last time like the man I’d met in the front garden. I really didn’t mean to. “That’s what everyone says. Congrats, Mike. You’re human.” The lava inside Michael stilled. Its glow dimmed. That eye fixed on me, uncertain, and I wondered if perfection could include pain, if it needed to, or if an angel could feel pain because it too was imperfect. I wondered how sad an existence could be to make something want to be human. The glow returned. Stronger and stronger till, even with the mask, I had to turn away. My eyes burned, overloaded with light piercing my lids. When I opened them again, Michael was gone, and I was alone with a passed out preacher and a corpse. “Can I use your phone?” “And you just happened to pick my apartment?” Diane leaned against the door, smirking. She could’ve killed me and, in that moment, I probably would’ve apologized. “I–” I looked away. “It’s fixed.” She stood up straight. Stepped aside. I headed for the table next to the kitchen. Two candles in the middle. Sugar cookie and cinnamon. Bookshelf in the living room. Poe, Shelly, Austin, Atwood, King, Butler, Rice. A picture of Wednesday Adams where my grammy woulda put the family Bible. The cauldron she mixed mocktails in sat on the kitchen counter. “Do I need something to drink?” she asked, hand already in the fridge. “Probably.” She produced a bottle of vodka and a half-empty two liter of Cherry Coke. Two shot glasses, one with the moon, the other with the hanging man. Diane filled both almost to the brim, left the ingredients out, and joined me at the table. She put both down before herself. “What happened?” “Somebody tried to hold onto something they had no business touchin’ in the first place.” “Try again.” “It was an angel.” Diane took the first shot. I kept going. “Maybe it knew what it was, maybe it didn’t, but it kept leakin’ its true form. Folks saw too much, they fell down dead.” “Fuck.” She leaned back, looked out the window. Snow piled gray on the sidewalk. “Anyone else?” “A woman. Mrs. Hunsberger.” Diane took the second shot. Winced. “She got there before I did. Got desperate about something.” “Fuck,” said Diane, still looking out the window. “She was my babysitter, back when my parents still went out to try and make their marriage work.” Diane grabbed the second shot, brought it to her lips and put it back down. “Shit.” I used the phone, and we sat back at the table. The snow’d picked up. Heavy-like. Just stray cars on the street. “I usually love winter,” Diane said. She tilted her head. “Well, fall, but winter’s a part of that. Good food, snowflakes, all excuses to sit inside and read.” She ran her finger around the edge of the shot glass. “Shit.” The flame on one of the candles in the middle of the table flickered. “It’s an interesting time of year.” She snorted. I wanted to hold her. Wanted to slide into the seat next to her and be a better person, but I remembered the mask, putting it over my own face as someone else basked in burning glory as it killed them. “Was it really an angel?” Her hair fell before her silver eyes. “Like, from Heaven, in the Bible?” “Yes. No. It’s complicated.” Diane took a long breath. I gripped the edge of the table with one hand. “Are there really angels? I mean the real kind, like a good thing looking out for you?” I swallowed. “I think anyone can be an angel. If we want to bad enough.” “Harsh.” “I have to tell the truth occasionally.” The heat clicked up another degree. “Alright then.” Diane’s smile was curved and dangerous. She took the glasses to the kitchen. “Do you believe in God? Not just in the Bible, but at all?” “Can’t. Professional liability.” She rolled her eyes. Filled the glasses with water. “You?” She sat in the chair next to me, pushed one of the glasses across the table. Braver than I’d ever be. “I’m lapsed, remember?”
Lapsed By Daniel Mosakewicz
Daniel Mosakewicz grew up on comics, Star Wars, and books about things that could not possibly happen. He earned his degrees in English Literature and History from Appalachian State. Originally from North Carolina, he now resides in Boise where he eats Mexican food and listens to Bruce Springsteen.
the Year By Corbett Buchly
Corbett Buchly has had stories accepted by Singularity, JAKE, and Mobius Boulevard. His poetry chapbook W/Make was published by Bottlecap Press, and he’s placed over 90 poems in over 35 journals. He is an alumnus of Texas Christian University and the professional writing program at the University of Southern California.
Nadia sprawled across the bed. Her head lolled off the edge. She hadn’t showered in days. She’d eaten little. Harold stopped in the doorway and looked down at his wife. His gaze traced across the tangled mass of her black hair that hung lifelessly to the floor. He had heard stories of post-partum depression, but still he struggled with his feelings. Had he been compassionate enough? He’d found it so difficult to understand her, to relate to her. It was as if someone else had inhabited his wife’s form. He took a half-step into the room. “Nadia?” Her red eyes blinked open, but she didn’t reply. “You have to get up, Nadia. Take a shower. I’ll take you somewhere. Let’s get out of the house. Maybe we can visit the market, pick up some of those fresh gletch peppers you like so much in your salad.” Nadia responded, her voice cracked and tired, “No.” “Nadia.” “I want my child,” she said and rolled over on the bed into a fetal position. Harold ran his hand through his hair and sighed. They’d had this conversation dozens of times since Mira was born three weeks previously. “Nadia. You know she has to go through Raskidelsk. All children too. You don’t want her to grow up without the divine spark, do you?” Nadia moaned. Harold walked toward the bed slowly and sat down. He placed a timid hand along her spine. “What if…” Nadia began. “Yes?” “What if there is no such thing, Harold?” “What? What are you saying?” She rolled over and lay flat on her back looking up at him. “What if there is no divine spark, Harold? What if there is no Gey-Hee?” Something in his gut tensed. She was questioning their god? Why now? “Nadia. You can’t be serious.” “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s natural that they take a woman’s child away for a whole year. I can’t explain it exactly. But it just doesn’t feel right.” “But, but we’ve always done it that way. The Brierchis expose them to divinity. You know it’s a long process, a complicated process. That’s why it takes a year. But you know.” He sighed deeply. “One year. It will be over before you know it.” Nadia rolled off the bed and stood, but she didn’t face him. She walked slowly out of the room toward the kitchen. “But what if that’s wrong?” Late that night, as the world slumbered, Harold sat in near darkness. A small lamp cast a shallow, flickering pool of light over one corner of his oak desk. In his hands, he cradled a folded sheet of paper, the letter he had written to his daughter. But he had written it three years ago, long before she was even conceived. It was a tradition in his family. It spoke to all the things he wished she’d do or become. Perhaps, she would become a scholar and follow in his footsteps, or become a surgeon like her mother. Mira wouldn’t see the letter until she was twenty years old. What a stupid tradition, he thought to himself, surprising himself. He didn’t know his daughter three years ago any better than he did now. They had seen their child, certainly, but only for a short hour before the Brierchis, the temple priests, had come to take her away on her Raskidelsk journey. Even now, she was being tended in the town’s temple by the Brierchis and their silent attendants. He slipped the paper back into the desk without opening it. The silence enveloped him. A week ago, he had visited his mother, a tall, thin and hunched woman who lived on the edge of town in a smaller home than he had grown up in. He remembered her sitting at the kitchen table, staring idly out of the window, one hand toying with the tea bag that dangled in her then empty cup. “I’ve never seen Nadia this… out of sorts.” His mother nodded absently. “Harold,” she’d said, as if that were an answer. “You weren’t like this were you? When you waited for me?” His mother turned to him, looked at him with faded green eyes. “Like what, Harold?” He gestured non-committedly in the air. “All… listless, I guess.” She smiled, dropped her tea bag back into the cup and folded her hands in her lap. “It’s a trying time, Harold. Every woman experiences that challenge in her own way.” He sighed. “So what should I do? Stay out of her way?” She smiled again and looked out the window. “Whatever you think, dear.” He stood up, shaking his head and took their empty cups to the sink. “So, what’s been going on, mother?” “Oh, the usual. This and that.” He shook his head and left the room. From the living room, he could hear her speaking. But he busied himself with straightening the already tidy room and did not return to her. Harold was lost in a light sleep, still sitting at his desk with the lamp light out. He had been afraid to go into their bedroom, fearful that Nadia would cast more doubts on their way of life. Share her unbearable grief with him. Nadia slipped into the room and knelt beside him, taking his hand in her two, gently squeezing. “Harold. Harold.” He roused and looked at her, a silhouette of tangled hairs. He felt her warm breath across his arm. He murmured a response, so sleep-laden in its slurred enunciation, even he was unsure what he’d said. “Harold. I cannot live like this. It is impossible.” But her voice had lost some of its weariness. He paused and pinched the top of his nose, blinking, trying to waken himself fully. “Nadia. You seem… different.” “Harold. Listen to me. I’ve decided we need to get her back. We need to get Mira out of that temple.” Harold pushed the chair away from the desk. His hand slipped from out of hers. “Nadia, you’re not thinking straight. It’s the middle of the night. Let’s talk about this in the morning.” She moved toward him, still kneeling and placed her hands on his thighs. Her eyes moved in close to his. She wanted to see him, and it was dark, so dark. “Harold. I am thinking clearly. I am the only one in this whole town that is thinking clearly.” “They will arrest you.” “Us.” “Us. Fine. It’s the law.” She stood up and crossed her arms, but still she was in close to him, staring down. She was defiant now, angry even. “Religious law.” “What difference does it make, Nadia? Religious law. Secular law. They will stop us.” “Harold, if you don’t help me, I will do it myself.” He looked up at her. Hard yellow eyes glistened inside the steep shadows of her face, the mass of tangled locks, the staunch stance, arms akimbo. A warrior medusa. He hardened beneath her gaze. Harold stood beneath the karotch tree and watched from between its long gray leaves. Up the long slope, ran the lone dirt path to the wide Brierchi temple that perched atop the grassy hill. The temple’s massive fluted cream-hued columns jutted upward as if grown from the earth itself. Only an hour previously, he had told Nadia he would “be right back” without explanation. He assumed she had thought he had gone out to contemplate her ultimatum. In reality, he had gone to do as she had asked. He had known immediately that she was serious, deadly so. And so he had gone to that place to save her. And maybe save himself. And certainly to save her daughter. But from what, he still was not certain. Nadia would be furious with him, he knew. She was no maiden in distress. He was no shining white knight. But this wasn’t about that. This was about his need to sacrifice himself. For love, maybe. And perhaps for something beyond that, that he could not yet articulate. For the trust she placed in him as a husband maybe. Or perhaps, something to do with fatherhood. He felt strong in the conviction of his action, if lost to its ideal. How was that even possible? Nadia would get over it. Wouldn’t she? He had no tools with him. He had only just walked out of the house quickly, without a plan or a thought. He would approach the temple from the East. No sense going in the front doors, he thought. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerve. No one to his knowledge had ever attempted such a thing. He wondered if the temple were guarded. In the stories he’d heard as a child it was, but then, the stories also said those guards were Frerkas, eight-foot tall shaggy, half-men with four jagged horns coming out of their foreheads. And how could that be true? He pressed his back close to the column, pulling his feet and arms into shadow, willing his breath to slow and quieten. The climb up the temple’s base and then the outer wall had been aided by ornamental latticework, but still he was winded. He felt he had entered the belly of the beast. There would be no mistaking his ill intentions, if he were found then. As he willed himself into the shadow, he heard the rhythmic soft thudding moving through the long hall on the other side of the column upon which he had pressed his back. Suddenly, Harold was his younger self, imagining the hulking Frerka lumbering through the temple, its long, clawed hands nearly scraping its knees, its savage mind seeking out any provocation to unleash a ferocious, primeval power. His heart raced and still he struggled to calm his breath, his mind. At last, the thudding moved close to his column and past, and then was moving at last, away from him. He allowed himself to lean slowly out far enough to peer at the retreating thing. It was indeed a tall, hulking humanoid, and a small, unwanted gasp escaped him. But there was no long shag, for its form glistened in the poor gas light like a dull bronze. An automaton? he wondered. He’d heard of the machine servants being used across the seas, but never in his country. As he waited for the sound to recede, he realized that the knowledge of the threat still did not diminish its effectiveness. In fact, he estimated the hydraulic-powered automaton, in its cold, cruel logic, to be a far more dangerous adversary than the mythical Frerka. He shuddered. He must find Mira and exit quickly. Moving carefully from behind the column, he scanned the long hall. Empty. He dashed down its length, away from the automaton. He lingered for only a moment to listen at one of the tall iron doors he found at the other end, before he pushed it open and stepped into a dimly lit room. Quickly, he shut the door behind him, also shutting out the brighter gaslights from the hall behind him. He paused there by the door, taking in his new surroundings. A small lamp at the other end flickered dully. The walls were adorned with dozens of large, thick religious icons, the tridents and sun crests of Gey-Hee, among other, more obscure symbols. Along the walls were shelves filled with brown bottles of various sizes.Cabinets protruded from the walls at regular intervals. Listening he began to hear soft throaty sounds. A tiny cough. Harold stepped cautiously to the edge of the nearest cabinet, realizing only then that it was a crib. A small, red-headed boy curled around a stuffed caribou, gurgling in his sleep. Above the child’s head, above all the cribs, he now saw were delicate dancing mobiles, made up of still more Gay-Hee icons. The nursery. He had reached the nursery. He had no idea how many children were undergoing Raskidelsk in the temple, but he knew it couldn’t be many. Perhaps, this was the only nursery. He leaned closer over the child and saw that it wore a curious brown leather pouch around its neck. He felt no need to check whether the red-headed child was his Mira. He could tell by looking at him. And perhaps, he felt it too. Slowly, he moved from crib to crib, looking over the slumbering infants, cooing and coughing. All of them wore the strange neck pouch. He surmised that the bottles along the wall held holy oils for anointing the children in ceremony and rare, blessed herbs for stuffing in the infants’ pouches. Was he remembering something? After he’d looked at each child, he decided that his Mira, if she were there in that room at all, must be one of two children. Both appeared to be girls with thick black hair. One had the short nose of Nadia, and the other, the pointed ears of his father and himself. He looked at his wrist again and noted the seven numbers and letters that had been tattooed there in red ink at the clinic. Nadia shared the same tattoo, as did Mira. Carefully, so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, he tugged the arm of the short nosed girl out from under her covers. He strained in the dark light to make out the markings there. They did not match. He moved to the other girl and gradually turned her wrist away from her face. She squirmed in her sleep, as he read the symbols. A match! His Mira! His heart swelled surprisingly, and he found himself choking on a sudden rush of tears. The child stirred and opened its eyes. Soft yellow orbs stared up at him, transfixed by his presence. He coughed and sobbed, but through a smile, as he looked down on her. “Well, little Mira. I hope you can keep quiet. We’re going home,” he said, as he scooped his hands under her and lifted her to his chest. He could smell the strange, wooded scents that emanated from her neck pouch. With her face close to his, she reached up and grabbed the inside of his nostril and pulled. “Easy, little one.” Mira spoke to him. Not in any coherent words he could understand, but she babbled as if in a slurred, foreign tongue, as if to an old friend. He knew he must leave, but his heart thrilled at her effort to connect with him. As he stood there as in a dream, he felt the severity of the Raskidelsk melt away. How could this be wrong? He still believed in Gey-Hee, but why this separation with child? Perhaps, this was a man-made construction, divorced from the divine. He couldn’t say. As he turned to leave, he noticed another presence near him. A Brierchi attendant stood near him, smiling. Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun in the ceremonial fashion. She clasped her elbows under the dark orange silk of her flowing religious vestments. Hanging from her hair and across her entire garment were more of the icons, these were small and made of wood. He estimated there were at least a hundred, dangling and rattling softly. Pulling his child closer to him, he looked back at her unassuming gaze. He could not but help to feel an immediate affinity to her that he could not explain. “Hegtha,” he whispered. She nodded. “That’s your name? How do I know that?” She pointed at him, then to the empty crib beside them. “Yes, this is my child,” he replied, in a hushed voice. But Hegtha shook her head, and reached a hand and placed it on his chest, before pulling it back and bring both arms up as if to cradle a child, rocking it. And then he knew. His feelings for this woman were explained. This woman, who must only be a few years younger than his mother, had raised him here, during his own Raskidelsk so many years ago. He had bonded with this woman before he had ever had the chance to bond with his own mother, who now lived alone on the other side of town. This angered Harold, and his face grew cold to her. She frowned, not understanding. He turned away from her to leave, but she placed a hand on his arm to restrain him. Turning back, he saw her gesture anxiously to the empty crib. She wanted him to place Mira back. Hegtha would try to stop him, from his theft that was not theft. But he could not hurt her. For all his anger, he could not lay a hand on her. But he could run. He wrenched himself away from her grip and ran. With a swift kick, he thrust open the door to the nursery, letting the light flood in. A baby cried out. A soft wail that rose quickly to a fierce and piercing pitch. Harold strode out into the large hall, sensing he could not leave the way he came. He headed for the front doors instead. At that moment, an automaton appeared around the corner, its stiff legs swinging boldly. Hegtha emerged and found a bell mounted to the stone wall. She rang it. This must have been a signal to the automaton, for it stumped swiftly in Harold’s direction. He turned and fled, Mira clutched tightly to his shoulder. Down the long hall, he ran. Through a pair of iron doors. The machine man dogged his heels at every step. It had no firearms, Harold realized, but he could sense its powerful fingers clutching at the space behind his neck. With barely two feet between him and the machine, he struck the next door with his shoulder opposite the one on which he carried Mira, tightly, ever so tightly. If the door had been locked, that would have been the end. But he felt the pain shoot through his arm as the door gave way and he was in the open air, just above the steps that led down from the temple. “What are you doing?” a man, presumably a Brierchi, screamed from the roof. Harold looked up to see who was shouting. As he did, he felt the cold, angular claw of the automaton close around his shoulders. He gasped and tried to wriggle free, but the more he squirmed, the tighter the unfeeling creature squeezed him. All this, only to be stopped at the last second. “Let me go!” he growled. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t stand for the iron claws to clutch him any tighter, to draw ever greater pain. Perhaps, if he rang a bell as Hegtha had done. But he had no bell. “Command! Release the man!” he said sternly, hoping against hope. But the machine stood rigid. He buried his face into the child’s blankets, at once feeling a sob well up inside of him, while also breathing in the somehow comforting scent of his daughter. A scent he had not previously known but that felt so familiar. “Harold,” he heard a voice beside him. He turned and from the shadow of a column came Nadia, his wife. “Is that her?” she asked breathlessly. The man above them screamed something and Hegtha’s hurried steps approached them. Harold nodded and grunted. “Yes?” she said and reached out for the child. As Mira left him, as he released the child to his wife, he felt something warm inside of him. Was the child glowing? No, a trick of the light. “What’s this?” Nadia said, taking the child’s neck pouch in her one hand. With one swift motion, she jerked the pouch from Mira’s neck, spilling beads across the pavement. “Miss!” said Hegtha striding up to them. But Nadia did not respond. In an instant, her whole body tensed and transformed. Her benevolent expression turned grim, as she stepped away from her husband, the automaton and a concerned Heghtha. Without hesitation, she bounded down the stairs, taking three at a time. At last, at the bottom, she spared a brief glance back to her husband and his captors. Harold, still clutched by the unmoving machine, was smiling broadly, although somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered who would come for him. Hegtha stared after Nadia dumbfounded. And above, a priest, looking out from a window along the roof, pulled at his hair. Down the path, Nadia raced. If it weren’t for the fate of her husband, she would have laughed. The tiny creature in her arms gurgled, and Nadia thought, Yes, you laugh, little one. Laugh for all of us.
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