Foxhole

Captain Murphy was a real son of a bitch, but you couldn’t ask for a better man to stand beside you in a foxhole.

Murphy knew battle, which made him a hard man to hate once the bullets started flying. He had a pocketbook full of aphorisms, a steady hand, and the worst case of eczema you’d ever seen. He looked like he had been eaten, spit out, and scrubbed off with sandpaper. I wager it made him look like a half-cooked demon to the other side, all angry pink and hellfire.

Murphy poured white pepper on everything and pissed into an old water bottle at night. Never admitting his night terrors were why he wouldn’t make it to the latrines like the rest of us.

Most people forgot that after the war—the little habits. The things not mentioned during the medal ceremonies. I didn’t.

I remembered. Even if I forgot, I also kept a little notebook on me. I had half the company’s habits scribbled in the margins. Not to shame them— but to remember the shading of their character, not just the outline. A lot of people don’t like that. They say it’s invasive. I say they want to remember heroes instead of humans.

Thankfully for me, the OSS didn’t agree. Most of my notes went to waste. The majority of boys I served with went onto middle American mundanity. But not Murphy. The war lived too deep in his bones for Buicks and bourbon to scrape it away. I don’t say it to belittle or be mean. I wasn’t made for peacetime, either. We’d shed the sheepskins to find ourselves wolves. We could never go back after that. I wish he’d listened to me when I told him about the OSS. They needed a man like him. The country did. Well, it needed him to work for it— he’d become too dangerous not to.

We shouldn’t be made to hunt down friends. Maybe that’s why the agency suggests not having them. I worked with enough of those Mormons to believe it—for a while. I can’t help wanting to share some suds every once in a while. Sitting on a barstool, sharing a Schlitz, and remembering our first pastries after peace had been called. Had we ever tasted anything so sweet? Murphy would say victory. Sergeant Burns would say Parisian quim.

I think no one wanted to admit it was the camaraderie. War was hell— but regular life swallowed you up like Jonah’s whale. No harpoons for these lads. Just cheap beer and thinning hair. I thought about that as I watched Murphy from a distance. He returned to Wisconsin to live. Milwaukee after surviving Normandy? What a masochist.

He’d gone to O’Hoolahans pub three times this week, and it was only Thursday. Caught like a fly in amber.

I wanted to reach out. To share a stool with him. Shoot the breeze like demons didn’t live inside our hearts. It would have made things a whole lot easier.

Well, that’s what I wanted to believe. But poison is a hard way to go. Still, the illusion would have been nice. The autopsy report cleaner than a shot to the head. Suicide could be ruled in either case. But Murphy deserved better.

I screwed the silence onto my nine-millimeter as I sat in the car. It sure would have been nice.

Glass broke, and a hand slapped the gun out of my grasp as another grabbed my hair.

“Nice evening, eh, John?”

“Mighty fine, Murph.”

“You’re a little far from New York. Forget to give me a call?”

“Must have slipped my mind. Thought you moved to Chicago, anyway,” Murphy laughed and took a slow step away, releasing my hair. His right arm ran crimson, his eyes steady. “Any plans for tonight?” I asked him.

“Thinking about a beer, you want one?”

“Better than sitting in a chilly car,” Murphy laughed again and stepped away to let me out. At that moment, I’d have rathered stepped foot into a tiger cage— but realistically, it wasn’t much different. Murphy watched to see if I’d even think about the fallen gun. I didn’t. My brains didn’t need to make the next great abstract expression on my windshield. Besides, I wasn’t lying about that beer. Everything tastes better after tip-toeing past death.

I exited the car— Murphy’s face had healed since I’d seen him last. But no one would confuse him with Audie Murphy. For the first time, I wondered when he’d last been on a date. Heroes like him shouldn’t be alone. Hoped someone saw that he’d been the best of us. Grown men need heroes, too; we don’t know how to admit it. Standing there— I knew he had been mine throughout the war. Hemmingway might have been a hoke— but he made some points before he tried too hard to prove he didn’t cry. Ugly thing it is for a man to cry. Uglier to lie about it when you’re caught dead.

So here I was, caught dead. I walked into the bar for a beer and hoped no backup showed.

Some men are cowards when it counts. That’s the difference between who walks through the door and who doesn’t.

I knew even if it were the end— I’d been on borrowed time since I stepped on French soil.

I’m not too big a bastard to not admit when I’ve made a mistake.

As I walked into the bar, I realized in the past three days, I’d been tailing Murphy; I hadn’t seen anyone else walk out of this bar—shame on me.

“Oh, Murph. What have you done?” We’re not meant to be alone. Not for too long. It does queer things to the mind.

After a while, you can’t make it back.

I thought Murph had—before a quiet bar filled with mannequins said otherwise.

I got closer to see they had uniforms of a sort. They had name tags too.

“Murph…” He didn’t say anything.

“Would have told you the gangs all here, but the boys wanted me to keep it a surprise,” Murph’s eye had a glassy sheen. A cold sweat broke over my back.

He walked behind the bar and poured two draughts. He set mine down on the counter and motioned me to sit beside a plastic Sergeant Burns. Murphy raised his glass, “A toast! To our slipperiest solider and company light weight, Johnny Maynard.” I pushed my glass towards Murph for the cheers, and a third joined us—a plastic hand on my shoulder. The room filled with clinks behind me as Murph downed his pint. I kept my eyes ahead as the malt burned my throat.

Abraca-damn it

“Greetings, mortals,” said a weasely looking kid clad in black cape and top hat. His attempt at a schmooze lent itself to a sneer. The oily hair didn’t help.

Ron pressed a hand into his face and moaned, “Oh my god. Not again with this shit.” He sat surrounded by fellow freshman parents. It was only the first term and his son Jeremy had shown a penchant for the dramatic.

Ron sat through the rest of Jeremy’s attempted magic show, but the boy didn’t get far. Card tricks require time and dedication to pull off. Along with no small amount of dexterity. None of which Jeremy possessed.

Ron wished his son hadn’t tried to walk the line of Houdini and Criss Angel, but he only had so many interactions available when he wasn’t at work.

The son of an insurance agent wants to be a magician. There has to be a joke there, Ron thought.

The summer between the end of middle school and beginning of high school had been a turbulent one in the Fensky house. Ron had divorced Jeremy’s mother, Charlene, who he’d caught cheating on him with a stand up comedian. Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t even been that. Apparently the man had specialized in improv. Meanwhile, Jeremy had taken to a book of stage magic after spending unattended hours at a local flea market.

“Try to take it easy this year, huh?” Ron said, sipping on a Miller High Life and watching the Green Bay Packers lose in the fourth quarter again.

“What does that even mean, Ron?” Jeremy’s dad bit back a yell. He stared at his stick-twig son and wondered how the hell any of his genetics were even in the boy. Or if any of them were in there at all.

“Just go easy with all the announcements and cape waving, people get uncomfortable about all that. Maybe cut your hair. Play some cards or something.”

“Cut my hair? Play some cards? I’m fourteen years old. I’m not some retired old man living on stupid memories of the past,” he said nodding at the tv. Ron had proudly represented Green Bay on the practice squad for two seasons. No NFL snaps, though he thought he had been close one October.

“It’s not a wild dream if you tried,” Ron muttered to himself as Jeremy slunk off to his room. The pair had quartered themselves in opposite parts of the house most days.

A couple beers later, Ron went to Jeremy’s room to try and give a “I know teenage years are tough, but you’ll survive” sort of speech. He stopped at the door when he heard the fevered chk chk chk of the keyboard. Ron knocked softly and peered inside the door to see Jeremy dressed in his cape and top hat responding to messages flying through some sort of post. “What in the hell in this?” Jeremy spun around.

“Why are you in here? You’re supposed to knock!”

“I did knock. But you’re too wrapped up in whatever this is to listen,” he said stepping closer to the screen. Some of the usernames stood out. “Collardog69”, “VendettaJane”, “Tellersplitsmytaint.” “Is this some sort of …pervert convention? Who the hell are these people?”

“They’re magicians. They’re my friends. And they’re teaching me about everything I need to know about actually living life.” Ron stepped back from the computer.

“Log off. You’re done.”

A flurry of expressions crossed Jeremy’s face before it settled on rage. “Fuck you. You can’t tell me what to do just because you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand all right. I understand that you’re a minor and these are a bunch of sexual deviants who get their kicks from messing with a kid. So, you’re going to sign off and shut down the computer. Or,” he waved his hand, “I’m going to take that hunk of junk to the landfill. Your choice.” Jeremy screeched and swept his tea mug off the desk before turning to rip all the cords out of the computer. He got to his feet and stared at his dad with beady black eyes before sweeping out of the room.

Ron looked around the cluttered room with dismay. It smelled like wilted cauliflower and toe jam. There were weird outfits and strange books scattered on the floor. Sticking out of the bed was a small polaroid of Jeremy and Charlene. Ron had taken it at the county fair a couple years back. Strange to see Jeremy with a smile. Charlene too. He left the picture where it was and went back downstairs to finish his beer.

Slaughterhouse Soirée

It’s nearly impossible to scrape all the lard out of the five foot tall burnished metal pot they kept in the back of the slaughterhouse. They’d boil down the bones and unwanted fatty bits to make a special pate for “premium customers.” Not that it was like to ever exit the building.

Roger “Cow Hide” Horton walked around at a staggering six foot six inches and four hundred pounds. Every day he’d stomp over to the magic man-sized pot and ladle out a fresh portion of the eternal lard stew into his thirty-three ounce “Don’t talk to me” coffee mug. He claimed it was for “quality control” but most workers knew better than to press questions.

Those who did— at least those who wouldn’t stop (after Roger issued a one eyed growl) were the ones that didn’t show back up for work. Not that anyone was too miffed. The meat house wasn’t hiring salutatorians of society. Most men and the handful of women that worked there had dubious tattoos and worse records.

Roger proved a safe haven for the domestically challenged. The denizens of North Plains were separate from the slaughterhouse servants and polite society was thankful for it.

Right on the edge of a posh town— but without the visibility to unsettle the milquetoast masses, the meat house and its gremlins (as Roger called them) continued their work in impeded. It was only the disappearance of a wealthy scion turned pseudo bad boy that the structured elite of the town took notice of Roger Horton.

Even with his special tasting regiment, Roger didn’t posses lard for brains. He knew if he made a misstep, his size eighteen boots of his would make a mark. So, sly as an urban coyote with the brazen balls to match— Roger struck first.

He rented out the ballroom at the council estate at the north end of town. He hired a nervous weevil of a man named Parker to manage the decorations. Roger and the gremlins took care of the food.

When the night of the new society ball arrived— gasps could be heard from the entrance as the guests walked into an elegant crimson hall. Dark purple streamers ran along the balconies above and a magnificent crystal punch bowl served as a centerpiece. It sat as a mock cauldron at the center of it all. And Roger-pressed into an immaculate three piece suit (custom, of course) with ruby red boutonniere attached to the chest, stunned the North Plains elite at the transformation from monster to monsieur.

Roger dazzled the guests with a surprising urbane sense of humor. He discretely ogled those to ogle, cackled and jested with the gummy men, and flowed from group to group with the ease of an established power.

By the time for toast arrived— Roger had worked the crowd like Kobe beef. All sweet talk and gentle massage. So much so, that no one noticed the quick movements of the cheap suited gremlins as they attended to comings and goings from the doors. Nor, did they noticed the covered trolley wheeled behind Roger’s table.

As Roger built to the crescendo of his speech— the residents realized he had dropped his suave mask. Before them stood the nightmare of a butcher— made real as he pulled an oversized cleaver from the trolley.

His booming voice proclaimed an end— to what— he didn’t specify in words.

Only action remained that night. Horrible, spine splitting, guts squelching, torn flesh action.

The floor had a cantilever to edge the offal to a sluice pit worked underneath by the gremlins. A dark shadow cling to Roger as he finally dropped his cleaver. He returned to his seat and pulled his mug from the trolley— staring out at the ruin before him smiling— he wondered why he hadn’t done this earlier.

You Can’t Cancel on the Trip— We Already Bought Beer

“Where the fuck is Zig Zag? Are you telling me directions right now?” Muffled sounds over the phone drag on as Liam wonders what the hell Ryan and Eric are doing.

“It’s a place! I’m not telling you to Bob and weave. It’s a ski town. Get your hands back on the wheel, asshole,” Eric said as he spoke back into the phone. “Sorry about that, brochacho, Ryan didn’t believe my instructions even though they were CLEAR. Anyway, what’s up brotha? You on your way to the campsite?”

“Only if you promise to never call me ‘brochacho’ ever again.”

“Sounds like someone’s got a case of the Monday’s. Did you have to fill in T-11 reports all day?” Liam could imagine Eric provide a sad clown face to accompany the voice.

“I’m serious. I will hang up.”

“Oh, come on, bro, lighten up! Tell you what, we’ll be pulling by the DQ in about ten minutes. I’ll grab you a burger and a shake, my treat. How about it?”

“Make it chocolate and I’ll see you guys in thirty.”

The phone clicked off and Eric and Ryan traded glances before cackling like hyenas. It was going to be a good trip. The pair had a maroon 1998 Astrovan on its last legs filled to the brim with Miller High Life and snacks. Their snowboards were strapped on top and they had some ratty blankets in case their sleeping bags didn’t do the trick for winter camping. Although in a yurt with a heater, Eric wasn’t sure it could be considered camping.

The boys collected their DQ burgers and accouterments, making sure to provide golden retriever smiles to the staff before pulling into their campsite. Camp Creek smelled of moss, ferns, and all the hours they spent outside in the woods behind their suburb smoking dime bag weed. Ryan and Eric felt at twenty-three, they could finally say they felt grow up.

***

Liam got off the phone as he pulled into the dingy five car parking lot of a general goods store. Grease and cigarette smoke colored the windows and the specials looked like they were from the thirties. Liam knew he had no shot of finding a spare battery pack here, but hopefully he could grab the rest of the supplies.

He walked in and immediately turned towards the drink section. The drive from Portland wasn’t that long, but he could do with a fizzy water. He heard a rustle behind him. He turned to find nothing. Weird. He looked through the fridge and couldn’t find anything without sugar. “Cream soda, orange soda, grape soda… where is regular soda water?” He mumbled as he flicked through the options. There were even a couple Jone’s sodas in there. What a throwback, he thought. Another rustle. This time he turned to see a stick, thin woman in a white and purple faded dress leaf through the chips before giving him a darting glance. He turned back and grabbed an orange soda.

Each aisle— he’d hear the soft rustle of some plastic bag being moved by the woman. She drifted between sections in a circling current. Never quite making eye contact with Liam, but lifting her head a little more each time.

Arms full and his heart pumping like he’d drank a triple shot of espresso, Liam grabbed the last item and headed up front— passing by the dark hallway in the back that a damaged sign overhead read “bathroom.”

The wall started closing in like an exam room after a long night. Liam could feel the creeping steps of the woman behind him as the aged linoleum failed to hide her presence. The store had the feel of a slaughterhouse— iron tang and a sickly sweet aftertaste that belonged to human flesh. A misguided summer internship at a morgue after listening along to true crime podcasts with his sister had left Liam with a morbid bent that weakened with every second spent in the store.

The man at the counter stood off-kilter, like he was propped up by a broken mop. Skin the color of aged newspaper, Liam didn’t want to read the stories hidden there.

“Youse a city boy, ain’t ya?” Wet lips smacked— at odds with the dry, thin features of the rest of his body. “Lotsa of ya ‘round here lately. Youse gonna run in them woods?” He whistled the words off. Liam tightened like a bow.

“Don’t know about all that. Just here for some time on the mountain.”

“Ain’t gotta be shy, boy. Youse ain’t nothing special.” The man started ringing up the items one by one. Making sure to look at Liam after each one. Two hundred miles from the ocean and Liam felt like he was staring into the eyes of a bottom feeder— pale, murky bulbs that balanced on blindness and keen interest. “Reckon youse be campin’ with all this wood. Youse up the way?”

Liam could feel the inside of his ears, the pulse of blood as he struggled not to show anything. “I think my friends got a cabin. We might even be up at the lodge. Just wanted to play it safe,” he said a little too fast. The man smiled— showing piano key teeth that hadn’t shined since RC Cola was served at restaurants.

“That’ll be mighty nice,” he said looking down at the last item. A can of propane and a lighter. “Youse have a nice time now.” Liam paid and grabbed the groceries, trying not to burst into a run to the car. Ryan and Eric owed him big time for this. He turned back once and found both the women that crept in his blind spot and the cashier stand by the window.

“Fuck this,” he said hurrying into his car and peeling out of the parking lot.

***

The engine ticked as it cooled down. The boys set about getting the tent up before Liam arrived. The third member of the trio— and the occasional outcast to what had been a childhood duo, Liam possessed the foresight the other two often lacked. Which his arrival made clear as he dropped a bundle of firework and flicked on an electric lantern.

“Why the fuck did you choose this place?” Liam said in a snarl. Eric and Ryan looked up ready to argue, but saw the pale pinch of Liam’s face and the wide eyes.

“Dude… what happened?” Ryan asked. “You almost hit a deer or something?” Liam tossed the rest of the supplies on the ground and stood there for a second.

“Where’s the beer?” Another warning sign to Ryan and Eric. Liam only drank in moderation and he never kicked off a bender. Ryan grabbed a cold bottle and gave it to Liam. He downed half of it before speaking. “I stopped by that store on the way up.”

“The one in Zig Zag? Next to the coffee shop?”

“No, the one a little further up. It had its own lot.” Ryan and Eric shared a confused look. They hadn’t seen one.

“And? You get offered to marry someone’s daughter? Participate in a blood ritual? What’s up?” Eric said trying to spark a laugh.

Liam’s eyes went flat at the blood ritual mention. “There was something wrong with the people in that store. Creepy. They were off… I don’t know. The guy asked where we were staying.”

“Oh,” Ryan said looking from Liam to Eric. “What did you tell him?”

“That were were in a cabin or up at the lodge. I wouldn’t have actually told him where we were going.”

“Cool cool.” Eric bobbed his head. “Besides, we’re like in the wilderness. Wouldn’t it be crazy for someone to track you down or something?”

Ryan punched Eric in the arm,“Dude, don’t say stuff out loud like that.”

“Forget it,” Liam said waving them off. “Let’s set up camp. I’m sure it was nothing.” He took one last look at the road into the campsite before turning back to their messy circle of supplies. Had to be nothing.

Pour Vous

At half-past three in the morning on Jacobs street in the sleepy hamlet of Tilden, a young girl read a worn chapter book under her covers. She kept a headlamp next to her bed for her late night escapades into worlds far beyond the daily malaise of eastern Massachusetts.

The secret to getting enough rest while reading deep into the night centered around a firm belief that if you told yourself you slept well in the morning, you’d feel energetic. It didn’t often work, but on those days Jannie would eat some hot peppers her dad dried in their cupboard.

Jannie heard a creak in the old Victorian house her parents bought a couple years earlier. It had a different weight from the other creaks and groans of the settling wood. Jannie had categorized all the different noises of the night to avoid being caught staying up late by her parents. She clicked her headlamp off. Another creak sounded, this time it came closer.

Jannie pulled back the bedsheet and waited with semi-closed eyes to feign sleep. Her dad might have gotten up for a snack. He liked to sneak bites of the cheddar cheese block he stored at the back of the fridge. As if Jannie and her mom couldn’t see the steadily decreasing amount.

The door to her room slowly opened and Jannie waited for her dad or mom to say something. The ruse was up— she’d been busted reading again.

But no words came. Jannie opened her eyes a little wider to see no one standing in the moonlit patch by the door.

Another creak. A flicker of movement in the hall.

A dark shadow filled the doorway. Jannie clutched her blanket and stared at the patch of darkness. “Dad?” she whispered as she shrunk into her covers. She knew that wasn’t the right question.

“Je suis pas ici pour vous,” a deep voice said. The little girl shook like a dormouse in a rainstorm. The shadow moved away.

***

A scrawny, curly headed girl sat at a library table with three other skate kids. Various beanies and textbooks filled the table as they checked their phones and leaned back in their chairs.

“Do you think death is one thing? Or do you think there are different reapers?” The group stopped staring at their rooms to gawk at the girl for a second.

“J, that’s a weird question coming from a person pretending to study math,” Nolan said as he flicked through a battered health textbook. He wasn’t doing any better studying, but he liked to keep Jannie on her toes.

“Just curious,” Jannie mumbled. She kept half-heartedly sketching the edges of graphs on her grid paper as Nolan looked at her arms. A couple new scratches were there.

Entombed

Once the lantern was lit, I knew there would be no turning back. That small, defiant flame perched on the end of the oiled wick seemed to smile at me— as if it held the same sentience as myself. Nevertheless, it was time. One does not enter a dragon’s lair half-cocked. Ideally, one does not enter it at all. But a contract with a djinn is not to be trifled with.

I hadn’t always been a tomb raider— once, when I was still a young man, I had been the assistant to a famous court historian. Ramsey Islington had made his name after unearthing the Circle of the Sphinx in Mallorca. It had been a powerful summoning tool for a forgotten band of Iberians that controlled the eastern coast. I had tagged along as a favor to my uncle, Lord Kenwick. He had made it clear to professor Islington that I was to be made useful to the excavation but not put in harm’s way. Professor Islington failed on both accounts.

Uncovering the Circle of the Sphinx had made Professor Islington reckless. Desperate to prove that he had another great discovery in him, he threw himself into dangerous situations without mortal regard. Serving as his porter, I was compelled to join him. The dread beast that dwelled within the Sahara past Morroco should have been his final warning that he was, in fact, a mortal. Unfortunately, Islington pressed further into forgotten wharves within the desert. Late into the night, under a star-drenched sky, he confessed that he was searching for a lost river— one that had reportedly carried Mansa Musa’s famous treasure across the continent. I listened and nodded, as a young man is wont to do when listening to the unraveling of an older guardian. I knew the desert was keen to swallow us whole— two intrepid explorers that had no business ranging amongst pathways long closed.

Three days beyond our rations and down to a single cannister of water, Professor Islington found an oasis. The shimmering heat waves magnified the small patches of stubborn green growth. It took an entire day to reach the tantalizing sight— as if it kept tip-toeing backwards as we advanced on it. The desperation broke when we heard the trill of a bird— I don’t remember who started running first, but both the professor and I arrived at the muddy edge of the water in a wretched state. We drank the water as if it possessed the answers to life— in which, it did.

We spent a week at the oasis recouping our strength before planning to depart. The professor charted the stars and determined the shortest path back to humanity. Our path would see us head towards the famous university town of Timbuktu. But it wasn’t to be. Before the last night fell— I saw a bright glint among the weeds at the bottom of the spring. I pointed it out to the professor— and he agreed that we should recover whatever it was. He said even if it wasn’t immediately useful, it might eventually help fund the trip.

Wishful thinking.

We stripped down and dove into the water. It became shockingly cold as we closed in on the silver gleaming. I heard muffled whispers that didn’t belong to the water— I pulled my hand back from it, but the professor made contact and we were blown away from the object. A vortex within the water began to pull us towards the bottom— I struggled not to scream and swam for my life. It was no use— we were pulled towards a black maw before my memory blanked.

I woke up coughing water onto a dry stone floor. The air smelled of cinnamon and tar— my limbs felt leaden with exhaustion and I forgot to even look for the professor. Which was just as well because he was no one to be found once I found the energy to stand. I followed the disturbing scent towards a dim light coming from the end of the hallway connected to the small room I found myself in.

I turned the corner to find Professor Islington laying prostrate on the ground before a dark mass that stood in the shape of a man. I looked closer to see the writhing shadows were black scarabs climbing over each other on the godless mass. That too, was wrong.

“Please, please. Spare me— I still have so much to learn!” Islington begged. His voice caught when he heard my feet scuff the stone floor. “Take him instead! He will serve you far better than I ever could. He’s young— malleable. Please!” He wept as he shamelessly tried to sell me to the evil thing before us. It turned towards me— no eyes, nor mouth could be seen.

“This one is quick to betray you. Is he your master?” The monster’s voice sounded amused as it pondered my fate. I felt cold— colder than I had felt since arriving on the continent. I knew I was going to die in this catacomb.

“I’m his ward. He is not my master—” I managed to choke out. I heard a low, rhythmic rumble from the mass. I realized it was laughing at me. I stood there frozen. Unable to act— just waiting for whatever foul end awaited me.

“You have not dropped to your knees. Do you not know who I am?”

I summoned the courage to not shake while I answered, “I do not. Enlighten me.”

“You will not find the light with me— my name is Idder. The likes of which has not been heard for centuries— but once, my name was whispered with the same fear they give Taral.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to release from this tomb.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know where we are.”

“All you have to say is ‘akhammake adassifatakhe ouyou’”

“akhamm-ake adassifa-takhe ou-you” I said stumbling over the words. The creature nodded and an invisible force wrapped itself around my body- squeezing tighter and tighter as I tried to say the phrase without pausing. I finally managed it “akhammake adassifatakhe ouyou,” and the force gave a final squeeze and released me. A black smoke flowed from my fingertips and the creature laughed.

“Good. Now, we will leave this one to take my place,” It said focusing on Professor Islington. He lay defeated on the floor- his urine pooled in a small puddle and the acidic smell jabbed at my nose.

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it. I would have never left you, my boy! Please!” His words fell on deaf ears as I watched the creature morph into a man. He looked ten years my senior— fit, but not laden with muscle. He grabbed my hand and gave a toothy smile before the black smoke returned. It flowed around us—blocking the tomb from view as the Professor began to howl like a wounded animal. His pleas fell away as a sharp wind whipped us away. The smoke dissipated and left us standing at the edge of the pond.

“Grab your things and be ready— we have a dragon to hunt.” The man who had been a monster said as the morning sun rose overhead. I pawed through the Professor’s belongings to find his correspondence book— inside it was empty. All the letters he had read to me from my uncle had been faked. I looked back to the pond, lowered the book, and walked over to the man.

Black smoke surrounded us before another sun ray laid its eyes on us. With that— the oasis was empty and the world bigger than before.

Cloven Hall

“Am I still your favorite preoccupation?” a babydoll voice echoed through the maze. What had started as a hopeful endeavor turned to horror as slick limestone and crumbled signs left Brady lost in an unnatural fog.

He checked a battered Timex— the sickly aqua glow reminded him of dock lights. The time read 2:36 a.m. He’d been lost for half a day— he scratched at the stubble in his jaw. The coarse hair felt thicker than usual.

His sister, Mel, had warned against joining the Brotherhood at his university. St. Andrew’s was infamous for the alleged labyrinth below the abbey. Brady doubted it before— no longer. His “brothers” told him he had a full 24 hours to pass through the labyrinth— he had asked “or else?” Their silence changed their aged schoolboy forms. They didn’t need to say anything more.

They swept away from the iron gate in the basement of the abbey to let Brady make peace with himself before entering. A brother stood near the door to make sure he did. They left a single red candle. Barely big enough to last through a formal dinner.

The first hour has been quiet safe for the occasional drips of water from the cracked walls. The air held a damp chill his windbreaker couldn’t keep out. It’s settled into his bones quick dash and he fought to keep it from his mind but each hour but it drift a little closer. The whisper of doubt – the locked door of all the nasty things he had ever heard, said, or seen— waited.

The second hour brought a distant rustle. It sounded like an animal nosing through shrubbery— save for all the stone, he could believe it. The noise kept its distance from him as he continued onwards.

The third hour was silent— A muted world that ate even the sound of his footsteps. He dared not use his voice for fear of breaking whatever spell he wandered into.

Noise returns in hour four – and Brady wished it hadn’t.

A light whistled tune bounced along the walls. Brady felt the walls creep in words – but that had to be his imagination. It was just anxiety produced by the Whistler. Inspired by it – he figured.

The fifth hour brought visual presence – tracers of light adorned his path. Snippets of old memories played before his mind like a reel of film. The girl from the orchard within them. A scene he’d lost from his conscious mind – but one his sleeping mind clung to like a sucking babe. Her face sent a wash of a icy fear through his bowels. Forget, forget, forget— forgive, forgive, forgive. He prayed a cyclical tune as he tried to shake the memory like a dog escaping the bath.

The sixth hour – the sixth hour brought a pox of shadows. The world turned to a slit as darkness filled the labyrinth. It ate at the space around the candle – cozying up like a lover during winter.

As hour seven approached— The shadows fell back. Brady would have rejoiced— save for what they revealed. Stone figurines now dotted the halls. He’s cycled through old paths – and thick, cherubic faces stared from moss laden eyes. He resisted touching them as a mix of cloyingly sweet and heady aroma filled the holes. It smelled of burnt sugar and heavy clove poured over rotten fruit. Brady tasted it in his mouth. He gagged on the air – desperate for it to stop.

Only at the turn of the hour did it fade — bringing instead a buried voice. It started from behind him— a sudden whisper in his ear as if hands rested on his shoulders and tip toed feet reached up to let him hear the words

“Why did you leave me?”

It fell silent again—

“You should have called for help.” Small drops of blood pooled before each new step. Brady choked back snotted tears. A wild rhythm found his heart and thundered a Morse code that screamed “Help me!” He started running— the blood splashing onto his pant legs.

“Don’t worry, baby,” the voice dropping octaves with each word. It’s a tone a dark horror. “We can finally be together. Haven’t you kissed me?” The voice pitched up like the squeal of a broken siren.

Brady flew across the slick steps— a shadow appeared at the next corner and he crashed into the wall trying to avoid it. His head crunched against the stones and her voice lowered to a lover’s confession, “you can’t escape the path.”

He awoke in the 9th hour with blood matted hair— he felt nauseous, but staggered to his feet— using the wall for support. He limped onward as the voice came back— asking him question with the flicker of a snake’s tongue. It brushed against his ear with each step.

At the entrance to the labyrinth a twin candle l to his melted, red hope finally died out— leaving a pool of wax to run in the divots carved into the floor— the warm stream filled a crest and pulsed an unnatural crimson before settling.

Brady’s candle extinguished within— a broken scream followed it before the tick of the hour hand brought itself to 3am and silence followed.

The doors above the abbey were locked and old iron chains pulled across the door. The hooded group dispersed into the night like ripples across a pond— moonlight failing to find them before the shadows did.

Crimson Crown

“It’s a good story for you, I think,” an old woman said as she pushed a plate of cookies across the table. Late fall snow began to fall outside. Wet clumps obscuring the beauty of singular snowflakes. A mash of fate down the river of circumstance.

“Let’s not,” the man said as he dunked a ginger cookie into some milk. The woman looked across the table at him.

“I think we will.”

He shook his head and broke another cookie in half before dunking it, “Fine.”

“It started with the burying of an ash tree. Eight lightning strikes, a lost marten, and the last nightmare of a broken man.”

“What kind of story is this?”

“The kind that changes the future once you’ve heard it.” The house shifted underneath them. A flash of terror crossed the man’s face as he raced to the window. He saw a pair of giant, yellow chicken legs below— and the ground further beyond them. The old woman gave a wide smile and gestured to his seat. He sat back down. “Drink your milk. It’s good for the stomach. Calms the nerves.” He listened. “This is a special story. One that hasn’t been told for an entire age. But you bear the mark of the last Volhv to hear it. So you must hear it too.”

The man took in the room around him as he felt it spin in fear. Nothing inside could have been from the modern age— he didn’t know how he didn’t see it before. Black iron and bright silver decorated the main room— a giant cauldron peeked out from the kitchen alcove. “Kasimir, would you please pay attention. You can stare at the cauldron later. You might even learn something.”

Beginning’s

She kissed his crown as he knelt at her feet. Her hands grasped his head—

“I will bring you such pain that you will wish madness may obscure it. That death might pardon it. And you will love every moment.” Her lips left a crimson mark. The lipstick was a promise of the future.

“I will tear your mind asunder.”

***

The hero of Kyiv slipped into the forests. A bow at his back and enemies close behind. Vitaly had rescued Countess Terez, only to face accusations from her father that he sullied her honor during the extraction from the besieged fortress. Not even Terez’s protests were enough to stop the Count from loosing his dogs on Vitaly. He killed two of the monstrous Kavkazskaya Ovcharka dogs before a third shredded his shooting arm. Vitaly cut the last one and scrambled away into the night. Men at arms rallied behind him at the Count’s call and followed the bloody trail. They were eager to claim the bragging rights and gold prize. It’s not often you get to dangle a hero over the coals.

Unfortunately for the Count’s men, they followed the descendant of Ilya Muromets. You can’t catch monster hunters in the forests their legends were born in. Vitaly’s ancestor killed the Nightingale. A chimera-like creature— with its blend of human and avian features. Its deadly whistle once leveled the palace of Prince Vladimir. Not that the Count cared for legends or heroes. If he did, he would have recognized the Muromets emblem on Vitaly’s chest and bowed. The men at arms lost Vitaly’s tracks as he wove his way amongst the thick brush. The cover of night erased any hope the men might have had before Vitaly crippled the dogs. Don’t chase a Muromets into the woods. These things are known.

The young hero holed up in a hidden cave some miles beyond the city. His grandfather, Oleksander, taught him about the secret places within the woods. He taught him the bow, the hunt, and the last vestiges of the Nightingale whistle. Forbidden magic to anyone without Muromets blood. Even Baba Yaga did not practice it. The forest mother did not need a sonic whistle to split the bodies of men. Vitaly made sure he did not venture near her hollow. He prayed to Chernobog that her house did not feel restless and relocate. He shuddered at the thought of its giant, yellowed legs.

The cool air in the cave let Vitaly slip into a deep slumber. The fear and adrenaline from his escape finally wore off. A women’s voice sang a haunting melody. A dark cloud released a torrent of water and black snakes writhed within it. Vitaly woke with a gasp. Signs from Chernobog. Ill tidings come closer. The young man was not as steeped in dream lore as his grandmother, Alina, but he remembered her warnings of prophecies from the Black God. Chernobog protected his own, but the God of evil was a fickle deity. Vitaly knew he served to appease, not to trust.

The shrill cry of morning birds met Vitaly’s ears. He rolled off the damp ground and got ready for a long trek back to Lukomorye. He had sacrifices to make if he was to slip the yolk of the Black God. His forehead pulsed with warmth where he had been kissed. Vitaly shuddered at the thought of her lips leaving their mark. His grandfather would have been ashamed— A Muromets under the spell of another? It would have been better to die.

Coracan Cantina

A billboard showed the vulpine face of Coracan’s most famous courtesan. A face that Aleran Rotaski knew well. It was the face he saw in his dreams. The face that drew him halfway across the galaxy and into constant trouble, Hinata Azul.

It was that same face that led him to an underused supply room where they kept their coupling a secret. Or had.

The door burst open just as Aleran had thrust himself inside her. Hinata screamed as three security guards ripped Aleran off of her. They took turns sending their boots into his stomach before another man entered the room with a satisfied smile.

“Aleran Rotaski, what a pleasure. The snake of Imhara found his way to my venue. I’m giddy as a ballroom debutante that you would honor us so. Although it seems you’ve already honored another here,” the man said with a leisurely gaze at Hinata’s naked body. “But, I must insist that you follow the rules that all our patrons have agreed upon. Otherwise, some might take exception to the unlawful sampling of services.” His smile turned cold as he handed Aleran a printed slip.

Aleran looked at the numbers on the paper in confusion. “What the hell do I owe you 30,000 credits for?”

“Miss Azul is still on the clock. Even if she decided to pursue her work in a … creative environment within my club. That’s the appropriate amount, I believe, for a galaxy-wide wish being fulfilled.” The man gave a wan smile before turning to leave the room. “Do try the front door next time. I’ll leave your name on my reserved list.” The guards hauled Hinata off the floor and gave Aleran one more kick before leaving him with blue balls and a red balance sheet. Aleran could only look as Hinata was dragged away. So much for being a badass, he thought as he lay on the floor.

The trick to being an infamous bounty hunter is to complete jobs that no one else wants— or believes themselves capable of doing. Aleran had a knack for sniping jobs like these from other seasoned professionals— hence the infamous tag. The Rotaski name became synonymous with thievery and lack of honor, but it didn’t stop the jobs from pouring in. Nor did it seem to stop the amorous offerings. Honor, Aleran believed, was a fool’s argument for vain nobility. He’d rather take the credits, whether they came in flesh or platinum form.

Aleran had originally met Hinata on a long trek from the Wenex Quadrant towards Coracan five years ago. He had hardly a credit to his name, but his prowess with his blaster was only short of his staggering self-belief. He believed himself a charming man— and his first interaction with Hinata landed him two sharp jabs to the nose and a satisfying kick to the peaches. Satisfying for Hinata, it must be said. Hinata had been scouted by the man that ran the Coracan Cantina. His name was Dario LeFleur, no doubt a self-styled affection. Dario had steadily built the Cantina into a quasi-arms base, with the attraction being some of the most beautiful beings in the galaxy under his yoke. He took a special interest in Hinata after seeing her perform a traditional dance during the middle of a sanctioned pit fight in the Wenex Prime gardens. She possessed a magnetism that made stomachs churn with desire and unhealthy fear.

Aleran had just secured his first big bounty when he decided to reacquaint himself with Hinata. He wasn’t surprised to find that she’d become the top billing at LeFleur’s Cantina. But he was surprised to find himself barred from the premises. When he pushed for answers— he was told that only premium bounty hunters were allowed in the club. The owner, they said, feared lower-level fare would be prone to mistakes in judgment and inability to cover inevitable damages.

It took Aleran eight months to finish enough jobs to be let into the first tier of the Cantina. Better than being barred but still three tiers away from Hinata. He’d later tell her this as they ate street food in Coracan. She laughed at him for his persistence— especially after he reminded her of their first meeting.

“You’re a fool, Aleran. No one climbs the tiers to have me go eat with them.”

“I did. Look at us now. Two sticks of meat and no indecent attacks. I’d say it was a good plan.”

“What is it you actually want?”

“Besides the fastest ship in the galaxy and a titanium cup? I’d like to keep seeing you without climbing the tiers.”

“You can have two out of those three. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“I don’t track people for money because it’s enough. I do it because I want to. I want all three. But I’d be fine with just having you.”

Trick or Treat

“Big braaaaaiiiiinnnnnn! Come back! You said you’d go trick or treating with me!” Morgan called out as Sylvia walked away.

Sylvia heard Morgan put all her hundred and three pounds of junior varsity lacrosse frame to use and sprint down the hall after her.

“I wasn’t kidding, Syl. This could be our last year to trick or treat! I want some Mars bars before the Brinkley brothers ransack the neighborhood.“ Sylvia sighed and stopped walking.

“Fine,” she said with a groan. “But I’m choosing my own costume this year. I don’t want to wear another glam band outfit. I’m still finding glitter from last year…”

“Yes! Ahh!” Morgan shook Sylvia’s shoulders like a broken vending machine. “We’re going to have so much fun,” Morgan said. Sylvia wondered what it would take for Morgan to not move. She’d known her since they were five years old, and the years that passed weren’t the blur, it was Morgan running around.

“I’ve got rules for this year. I don’t want to go down San Rafael street. I know you like the creepy half-lit streets, but we’re not doing that this year. Only the good streets off of Knott.”

“Ugh, fine. But we’re totally gonna miss out on the candy bowls they leave on their porches.”

“Not worth it. Five dollars, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle dip-shit, clear those out first.” The bell for fifth period rang— leaving Morgan and Sylvia late for math. Miss Kenton wasn’t going to be happy with them.

Sylvia and Morgan got ready at Morgan’s house as the sun lowered over the city. They were in the attic, surrounded by old mirrors and open chests of theater costumes. Morgan came from a long line of thespians, making her insistence on athletics frustrating to her parents. Still, they were happy to let Morgan and Sylvia rifle through the old costumes, hoping it convinced her to take a step closer to the stage.

Sylvia put on a dusty train inspector’s uniform and rotated in front of the mirror. She grabbed a black cap off the ground and put it on.

“Now that’s an outfit! You look like your name could be Horace or Theodore,” Morgan said as she loosely held a purple leotard.

“I said no glam bands.”

“But-“

“I’m not suffering through another year of glitter. There’s plenty of other costumes.”

“Fine,” Morgan stuffed the leotard back into a chest and pulled out a nun’s frock. “What do you think?” She said waggling her eyebrows, “I could make a habit of this.” Sylvia let out a snort which led Morgan into a belly laugh. They were both on the ground crying with laughter as they struggled to gulp down air.

They eventually made it outside with their costumes and pillowcases for candy. The little kids, accompanied by mom or dad, had already started and finished before it got too dark. The streets were left to the slightly older kids who wandered without their parents.

The rain held off— letting the girls enjoy a surprisingly dry Portland Halloween. They thought it a sign of good fortune. Forgetting all the stories of pale moon nights in the city. They made a leisurely circuit around the Irvington neighborhood before they heard it—the gentle whimpers of a hurt animal.

They paused— waiting to see if it stayed put. They held their breath as a small, black, shaggy creature limped onto the sidewalk before them.

“Syl! It’s a little puppy— poor guy must have been attacked by a coyote or something,” Morgan said, rushing to the creature. It made another small whimper before letting out a phlegmy growl. Its hackles raised as Morgan jumped back from it.

Sylvia began inching backward. “I don’t think that’s a dog, Mo. We should just let it be.”

“But it’s not safe out here for it!”

“It’s not gonna be safe for us either if it keeps growling like that. I don’t think it wants us to touch it.”

The animal seemed to crackle and melt as it began to expand into a larger beast. The phlegmy growl became a full-throated bass. Its dark, squinty eyes began to glow like rainy red neon.

“Mo…” Sylvia said, grabbing for Morgan’s hand. “We have to go— NOW.”

The pair took off in a sprint as the beast behind them let out of wicked howl. The moonlight flashed between blank patches of the sky as the trees covered most of the neighborhood. Ten blocks— they just had to make it ten blocks, Sylvia thought. They must have strayed far into the night because the previously busy streets were empty as they ran.

Up ahead were three figures similar in height strolling down the middle of Thompson. They were laughing as they swung their bulky pillowcases at each other. They hadn’t heard the creature—

“RUN!!” Sylvia screamed at the trio. The shocked faces of Grant, Josh, & Alex Brinkley turned to take in the frantic sight of Sylvia and Mo sprinting down the street. The boys stopped and watched the girls run past before hearing the scrabble of thick nails on the pavement. The beast burst onto the street two blocks behind them and howled before resuming its chase.

“What the fu-“ Josh said before Mo ran back and wrenched him into a run.

“Just run!” Mo screamed at the brothers. All five of them ran together— they were only a block away from Morgan’s house. The beast sounded closer as they rounded the corner and had her home in sight. “To my house!” She didn’t have time to check if they agreed.

They flew up the old wooden steps and burst through the front door. Mo slammed the door shut and threw the locks. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The door was immediately met with a heavy force— it threw her to the ground, but the heavy oak door held. Sylvia and the Brinkley brothers looked behind Mo in horror. A claw had jammed through the door and broken off. Its curled, black mass felt more menacing than the howl. They could hear the beast pad across the porch as it huffed.

“What the hell is that thing?” Grant asked as he got up from the floor. His usual cherubic face was lined with worry.

“I don’t know. Syl and I thought it was a puppy at first. But I don’t know. It’s bad- whatever it is.”

“Mo, where are your parents?” Syl asked as she looked around the darkened house. The usual nighttime lamps weren’t on.

“I think they’re out at a party. My mom just opened her new play downtown. Should I call them? Do we call the cops? Animal control?”

“Does anyone have a cellphone on them?” Grant asked. The tallest and oldest Brinkley brother tried to use a calm voice.

“You don’t have one?” Mo said as she stared a second too long at Grant. The moment was broken as the door thudded again. The wood groaned but continued to hold.

“No, I don’t have one. Our parents don’t believe in kids having phones. What about you? Isn’t there a landline?”

“A landline? This isn’t the sixties, Grant. Everyone has a cell phone now.”

“Then where’s yours?”

Mo patted her body down as Sylvia did the same thing, “I must have dropped it…”

Grant said, “Never thought I’d die in the Wallstein house.” Alex and Josh exchanged terrified looks.

“Uh…” Alex raised his hand, “should we move away from the door?” Everyone turned at that to stare at their dwindling hope in wooden form. It shuddered again as the beast tried yet another time.

Sylvia looked at Mo and then looked up towards the attic. Mo nodded.

Broken Soil

Smoke rings flowed over an emptied bottle of whiskey. His voice followed after like a ragged hound. 

“It smelled of rotten fruit and broken October soil, Benjel. Something is stirring inside those walls,” Walter said. Eyes fixed on the end of his pipe. 

“The cemetery walls? Those walls are for the superstitious and vain. Nothing beyond rotted wood and faded bones is left in there,” Benjel said. His callused hands tapped the ashes from a cigarette.

“Something followed me through the paths yesterday. It’s stink clung to my nose— don’t look at me like that, I know what I said.”

The house settled around them— letting Walter’s words sink into the creaky joists. 

Walter looked out the third story window to peer over the St. Johnstone cemetery walls. Old oaks and shrubs dotted the landscape as headstones of marble, granite, obsidian, and stone interspersed the space between them. 

Since the early pioneer days, the St. Johnstone cemetery proved a popular resting place. Only current city expansion pinned the grounds in. Leading to grave re-origination. In a controversial move— the old pioneer graces without headstones were exhumed & transferred to a mass grave in the south side— the area parallel to the caretaker house both McClaren boy’s lived in. 

Benjel had authorized the move on renewed insistence from their accountant. But last night brought the first kernel of doubt— the first of many that would bloom under the flames of fear. 

St. Louis had a reputation for ill-gained land, dubious deaths, backroom thuggery, & poisoned moonshine. None of that spelled half as much trouble as the McClaren’s graveyard Feng Shui exercises. 

“Lock the grounds tonight after your shift and salt the exits. I think we’re on the verge of calling Father Kellan. 

“Salt the exits? Walter, I think you’re going over a line here. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is how witches inhabit the Aaron’s house and frolic in the moonlight.”

“Damn it, Benjel. Just salt the exits— this queer happening falls on you. Shouldn’t have dug up those old graves.”

“Come on, you know we needed the space. Can’t bury in a filled plot, now can we?”

Walter got up with a grumble and left the room, leaving Benjel to stare at the new family venture— their dead fortune. 

The caretaker house creaked as the old wood adjusted to the moisture of the fog rolling in. It blanketed the graves and took away any point of staring while there were still chores to do. 

***

The heavy blanket of fog turned the grounds into a silent crypt. Benjel hated walking the night patrol. Too easy to break an ankle out in the mists. A squirrel hole here or unseen headstone there, it was a minefield you didn’t want to fall in. 

It fell on his shoulders to do it— Walter agreed to the deal, so Benjel stomped the grounds. Brothers can be such crafty bastards. 

Benjel kept a tight circuit through the cemetery— unconsciously avoiding the area that spooked Walter earlier. 

No one needs a yellow stripe when walking along the dead— you remain above it, he thought. 

The soil broke fifty yards behind Benjel. The mist smothered the noise, but not the smell. He broke into a trot back to the house, cursing himself for not having a dog. 

Walter watched him as he burst inside the house. 

“What happened?”

“Didn’t see anything out there, but I smelled it, though. Damned if you weren’t right about the fruit.”

“Looks like we woke something up.”

“We need a dog, Walter, that’s what we need.”

“We needed to not move those graves, but we’re past that now.”

“I’m not going to say sorry. Who the hell is supposed to know something hinky would happen?”

“Perhaps some wise woman or priest, but we don’t know what’s happening— outside of it being off.”

“Yeah, well, I need some whiskey and a nap right now. We’ll call Father Kellan tomorrow.”

“In the meantime, keep a Bible handy.”

“Why?”

“Can’t hurt,” Walter said as he retreated to his study. Benjel stared out at the pale view and shivered. 

“Shouldn’t have moved those bodies.” 

Telling

“Silence, dirtbags!” An impudent, tartan-clad queen shouted from the stage. Her Doc Marten’s were jerry-rigged with blue duct tape & spite. She howled on the microphone like a cat in heat, and her bass lines were so dirty you felt Dionysian after listening to them.

Veronica Telly stood five feet flat and towered over the world. I’d seen her sink her teeth into a bouncer’s shoulder after being denied entry into her own show. What I’m saying is— she was not a force to be fucked with.

Which is precisely why I fell in love with her.

Night of the Living Dead, haunted houses, Veronica Telly— What do they all have in common? My collected terror and infatuation.

I’d skip mass to pray at the skate park. Quicker to knock my ankle than bend the knee. I overheard Veronica mention a love of beads— but I didn’t think she meant rosary.

I picked up stick & poke to have to excuse to offer her something. She asked for examples, and all I had to offer was the amateur sketch pad that was my left thigh. I had to pull down my jeans to show her the full spread— my face was red. Hers was not.

She laughed at how pale I was and told me to ask her again after I got the hang of it. She left after tracing the outline of the starfish with her index finger.

“That’s your best one. You might just figure it out.”

I wanted to burn that moment into my brain and live in it. Instead— I ran to the library and checked out as many animal and sea life books as possible. I stole tracing paper from my university’s art department. I retreated to my attic room atop a four-story hovel hoping to compress hundreds of years of artistic excellence into a single weekend.

I rode a fevered current as I studied the feathers, bones, & fur of predators and prey alike. I had the sense that I was not the predator between Veronica & myself.

I found a poison dart frog— admiring the ink and blatant audacity of a small but mighty force in the jungle. It seemed like the honey badger of amphibians. Mutual assured destruction for anything that attacked it— although I aimed for mutual assured affection. I had no desire to be poisoned— but as I worked under a creaking roof, I knew I had already failed.

The birds started chirping before I knew morning had caught up to me. I had progressively messy drawings— but the meaning was clear. This was an obsession that I wasn’t going to give up lightly.

The next three weeks saw me beg, cajole, poke & prod anyone I knew to let me practice my fledgling art after filling my own thighs with ink—a rocket ship for Logan, music notes for Julian, and a Greek sun for Aisley.

I slowly found my lines, filling in my imagination that blossomed behind them. I even forgot the original fever— Until Veronica Telly’s next gig was announced.

Veronica and the Nine-Tails only played once a month. I had a single chance of impressing her with my progress. She was covered head to toe in black denim, but I prayed she had a spot for my art underneath it.

The crowd was whipped into a frenzy as Veronica commanded them to jump. The middle of the audience was a pit of sweat and adolescent release. Her bass wailed along with her voice— begging them to let loose. I pushed my way to the front— knowing there was little chance of her knowing I came.

But as the song trickled out and the crowd began to breathe deeply— she peered down at me and smiled. I lifted my arm to display my latest work, a goshawk in flight. She gave a playful laugh before nodding towards the left of the stage.

The man at the door looked me over like bargain sausages and gave a rueful chuckle “she said you’d be here,” before opening the door.

I found myself in a dark closet of a room. It smelled like Mountain Dew and old Chinese food. Veronica’s faded army jacket hung off the chair— I looked at the patch of Iggy on the back before settling on the couch. I heard the guitar squeal as the final song hit its crescendo. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the animal I thought she’d like.

“Good, you found the room. I didn’t want to have to hunt you down after the show,” Veronica said, lugging her bass. She set it next to the desk and turned to me. “I saw some of your friends— you’re getting better.”

“Thanks. I’ve been trying to find the right animal, but-“

“I want one before you’re famous. Otherwise I’ll have to make an appointment, and those are never exciting,” she said, dropping onto the couch beside me. I looked away and rifled through my backpack for supplies.

“Do you know where you want to get it done?”

“Same spot as the first one you showed me,” she said, unbuttoning her jeans. I didn’t make a sound. She slid them off, revealing lean, olive-toned legs. No tattoos. I tried not to stare at the black lace thong. Sweat broke across my neck.

“What do you want?” She grabbed my hand and put it on her thigh.

“I want something inspired,” she pulled my hand higher. “I want you to remember this forever,” my fingertips grazed the bottom of her thong. I could feel the heat of her. She leveled her hazel eyes at me like sunlamps— I pushed my hand higher— resting it across the length of her before curling my fingers under the elastic band and pulling down.

She shimmied out of the thong— leaving my face between her legs. I kissed gently on her inner thighs as I worked my way up. I pushed one hand up her chest, and the other gripped her ass as I breathed in her sex.

My tongue filled with her taste as she caught my hair in her fist. She made a small moan as I worked slowly over the outer edges. Her breathing became heavier as I began to lick at her clit. I moved my hands down to grab her thighs as she squeezed against my face.

Time turned fluid before she brought me back to reality with a heaving moan and jittering legs.

“Oh my fucking god,” she laughed. “Where the hell did that come from? You looked like you were going to pass out when we started.”

“I was nervous, not incompetent,” I said, laughing with her. She let out a sigh and sunk into the couch.

“I really did want one of your tattoos, but I don’t think I can sit through that now.”

“You could always stay lying down if you want?” She raised her head to roll her eyes at me before returning horizontal.

“Why don’t we get some beers first? My voice is fucked from the show,” she pulled herself up from the couch. “Wait. I don’t even know your name. Did I never ask?”

“I don’t think so. Figured we’d sort that out later?”

“Wow, I’m an asshole…-?” She rolled her hand at me.

“Aanders,” I said with a sheepish grin.

“What? Are you a secret Viking?”

“My family is Scandinavian— kinda comes with the territory.”

“Did you just eat me out anonymously and then drop a geography pun on me?”

“You asked,” I said with a shrug. She sat half-naked with an animated light in her eyes. She leaned forward and gave me a hungry kiss.

“Let’s go find that beer— I don’t want to fuck you while I’m thirsty.”

***

I ended up sprawled across a sweaty mattress as Veronica laid on top of me. She kissed my chest and looked up.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop with the on and off confused look. I don’t know how you’re still confused after…” she checked her phone for the time, “three hours? Jesus tap dancing christ. Well, apparently the Viking’s lineage runs true.”

I smiled but felt the knot in my chest tighten, “I thought you wanted the tattoo, I didn’t expect to be- I don’t know.”

“A booty call?”

“Yeah, I mean. I gotta admit that I really like you. I didn’t want this to be one off.”

“I think you’re jumping the gun here, maestro,” she cackled. “You do know we have basically the same friend group right?”

“Not really?”

“Roxanne is my best friend. She’s dating Julian. Julian is one of your best friends— ergo we’re in the same bubble.”

“And?”

“I didn’t pull you back just to jump your bones or for the tattoo alone.”

“Why then?” My brain couldn’t piece this together.

“I know about the last couple weeks. Your friends love you, but they spill the beans pretty quick under pressure.”

“Shit.”

“And yes, while it’s a little bit intense that you went all rampant artist to try and make me a cool tattoo. That’s actually one of the sweetest things ever.”

“So?” I said, tracing patterns across her back

“It’s also hot that you kinda just do whatever the fuck you set your mind to. I figured I wouldn’t see you again at any parties so I booked an early gig in hopes that you’d attend.” There was a distant sound of glass cracking— and later, I realized it was all the little assumptions I’d gotten wrong.

“Does that mean you still want that tattoo?”

She pulled herself up to my face and kissed me, “I do. But I need some sleep first.” I started to move to get out of bed when she put a hand on my chest. “Aanders— I’m going to tell you this once. And I’m sure you’re trying to be polite. But if I just admitted that I put on a gig to have you attend— and you spent three weeks trying to design a tattoo for me— you’re out of your mind if you think you aren’t going to cuddle me to sleep after fucking me.”

“Oh, yeah. I want to— I just didn’t want to impose-“ the words died in my throat. “Sorry, still learning how to not be an idiot. I’d love to,” I said, turning to my side and wrapping my arm around her. She pressed herself into my frame like a forgotten mold.

The street below played host to occasional honks and flashing lights. I fell asleep with my nose nestled in her hair. She smelled of citrus and sweat.

Stubborn Fate

"Either fate will be kind, or you'll have to be stubborn," Marty said. Smoke rolled off his cigar as he sat overlooking the pier. He was a thin man, bound together with vices like dried glue. You never hope to rely on a man like that, but when they're your only family in a big city, you make do.

"Hey," he snapped his fingers. "I'm still talking to you. Get your head out of your ass. These are things you need to know."

"What? I'm just starting a couple of classes at the community college. It's not a big deal,”Daniel said.

"Not a big deal? No one in our family has ever made it past the tenth grade. Now you're starting college, and it's 'not a big deal'? Don't hand me that bullshit."

"Can't you leave it alone?" The young man fidgeted on the cold bench. To the passers-by, he looked like the premium price version of Marty.

"Leave it alone? Kid, I'm proud of you. The brains our family's blessed with ain't so great for the pencils and textbooks. So for you to be standing in front of me now as a premier college student? It warms my fucking heart."

"You could have gone to college. Dad always said you were the smartest person in our family."

"Your dad doesn't know how the world works. That's why you're here with me, and why I never sat in a classroom past fifteen years old. He doesn't understand that when you sacrifice something, you ain't getting it back." Marty flicked the cigar. "Don't let this go. Community college or university, it's an opportunity. You've earned your shot, and now you gotta take it."

"Thanks, Marty." The morning fog rolled in off the lake. It swallowed the pair on the bench before greedily stretching towards the city.

Ima Jean

She had a plastic skeleton sit in her motorcycle sidecar. She draped it with hula flowers and kept an empty bottle of Sailor Jerry’s taped to it’s right hand. She rarely drove it— but managed to disappear from view the moment she left the apartment building. She could have rivaled Houdini in another era.

She had hand tattoos that spelled out “Nox Lupus” across her knuckles. I wanted to call her Ima Jean, but the last person that did that is still swimming from her slap. 

Her Olympic weight lifting exploits meant she had a firm “Don’t fuck with” vibe— even when she smiled like a saint giving benediction. I’d pray at her feet— but I’m not sure she wouldn’t break my knees for it to happen. 

I hate being scared. And being around her makes me feel like a Wall Street banker during an IRS audit. But mama didn’t raise quitters— though she should have after I saw Ima Jean shoot a rattlesnake out of a tree. 

I had to understand the forces that go into creating a living legend— even if I died trying. 

The first time she talked to me— I was moving into the walk up above her. She looked at my boots and frowned. “You’re going to wear sneakers or socks from now on. No heels over my head.” I put my boots in storage thirty minutes later. 

She cooked almost every meal on the charcoal grill in the backyard. She’d stack pallets of ribs in the basement freezer. I gave up trying to store my summertime berries down there. Some battles aren’t worth beginning. I’d say hi, but only managed to squeak since I was too scared to use her name. I’d heard someone else call her “J.” I thought they had the courage of a titan.

Every Friday a different girl would trail her into the building like she was a leather-clad siren. I’d lay against the wood floor and hear the grunts and moans of sweaty work being done. I’d run my hands through the thick wool carpet next to the bare wood and imagine it was her short, black, spiked hair.

Later, I’d sit with my cracked, teal Avian review mug and squirm at the thought of her finding out I ease-dropped on her intimate encounters. I wanted to write a poem for her— but I was scared she would have something to say if she did. I could bear the ignorant silence— I couldn’t survive a knowledgeable one.

Up

It took three weeks for anyone to notice the decapitated head in the attic window of the Kowalski house. Even then, people thought it was a decoration. Halloween come early or some other eccentric reasoning.
It wasn’t until the postman noticed the smell that the town of Auburn realized something was wrong.

People don’t have a tendency to look up. If they did, they would have noticed the strange happenings in the Kowalski house long before the sour stench of decomposition started flowing past the porch.

Originally the Kowalski family had five members when they moved into the house in 1972. Husband and wife, Harry and Lisa, and their three kids, Stephen, Simon, and Tiffany. Slap a sitcom title across their family portrait and they wouldn’t have looked out of place next to the Brady Bunch. But behind their carefully manicured hair and bright eyes— something was missing.

With Simon, the kids at school could have sworn there were whispers that trailed his voice as he spoke. For Tiffany, it was the hollowed stare of her ex-boyfriends after she finished dating them. But Stephen? No one could remember anything about him. Even the idea of him seemed to slip their mind. As for Harry and Lisa, they were somehow always together. They were like a stubborn elastic band that refused to stretch.

The head appeared one year after Stephen graduated from college and returned home. Not that anyone remembered him even going off to college in the first place. The police were summoned to the house to question the Kowalski’s, but by the time they arrived there was nothing to discover. No head. No smell. In fact, there was nothing inside the house at all.

Now, the Kowalski’s, while odd, had certainly lived in the neighborhood since 1972. Even the most stubborn neighbor would attest to that. But the strangest thing was that no one could find a picture of them. Not within the school yearbooks or local papers. Not in old Polaroids or projector slides. Even journal entries seemed oddly smudged where a name might have been.

Even the day before the police arrived, neighbors had seen the Kowalski’s departing the house and returning later. No moving vans or packed cars. No urgency in the air. Nothing at all.

The family had been there. And then they were not there.
Not once did anyone think to look up.

Crumbs

Two bits to his name and a laconic drawl that stretched words like hot taffy. There wasn’t a gunslinger in the west that hadn’t heard of Russell Jeffries (RJ).  People asked him how he did it. He couldn’t answer any more than a hummingbird could explain how they flapped their wings. They just did.

He’d draw, aim, & fire in the space it took you to realize he should start. Over before it began and another challenger spilling their crimson conscious onto the dirt. 

West Texas is flat as an ironing board and twice as hot as the devil’s oven. None of that stopped RJ from taking in the landscape like a fish to water. Hanging off the side of his saddle was a small easel. That’s how he garnered the name “The Painted Kid,” not that he liked it. 

The painting, certainly, the name, not so much. 

But when the public gets ahold of something that’s put mud in your eye— they keep squelching till there’s nothing left but soggy feet and sore feelings. 

Each town heralded his arrival like a fallen angel— open distrust and an inability to look anywhere else. 

RJ figured once he hung up his guns, he’d make his way over to Barnum and Bailey’s. Seeing as he’s already a show. 

Some challengers would call him out on main street. Crying out that they’d find him at high noon or see the back of him running off. 

Most days, he had no problem raising to the task of pest removal. But once in a blue moon and deep in his cups, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he scampered away in the night like a spooked jackrabbit. 

His mama told him that bravery was well and good, but making it home for dinner would always be better. 

Ain’t much of a choice between being a coward or death. 

RJ had no intention of dying in Mesa Verde. But then again, not many of us see the soft steps of Death tread upon the ground before us. 

A boisterous young thing from Colorado had set about claiming the state as his stomping grounds by the time RJ crossed into the county. 

Unfortunately for RJ, there weren’t many left in the west that didn’t know The Painted Kid on sight. 

One look at the saloon and the whole street filled. You’d swear the town had planned it, the way they spread out, ready to see a quick man take the long nap. 

That’s the problem with destiny— you can’t offer your legend without knowing you might be building another. 

They called the young man “Billy.” He was all of five foot five and mean as a stamped snake. He had a sneer wiped across his face that made you think he took a personal offense to anyone who breathed the same air he did. 

Some of us aren’t meant for a tender soul. Lord knows Billy did not tend the gardens and pet stray cats. This was a man meant for killing. One way or another— he’d ride the coattails of the reaper all the way to the land of fire. Blank eyes— without even a thought he couldn’t win. 

That’s why you don’t trust fate. She’s a tricky catch at the best of times. But when you’re knocking on the door to the afterlife, it’s polite to wipe your boots on the mat first. 

“I hear you want to die, old man,” Billy said. Sun tanned and sweat through, he took a slow drag from a badly rolled cigarette. 

“Or we could leave the day as friends. I don’t need to warm my guns if there aren’t any fools in front of me,” RJ replied. 

The crowd took a sharp breath in. A pack of land sharks instead of humans, the way they smelled the blood in the water. Despite the pretty words, no one would be leaving early. 

“You calling me a fool?” 

“Are you standing in front of me just to gibber?” RJ said with a wry smile. One day he’d learn not to egg melonheads on. But it wouldn’t be today. 

“You know the time— high noon. Wash your face, I’ll let you die real pretty.”

Billy ashed the cigarette and blew RJ a kiss before stomping off to the saloon. 

“Oh, and how about you paint me a picture or something. That’d be a real nice memento to remember you by.” 

RJ looked at the crowd and sighed. He’d been crossing his fingers for whisky and cornbread. Didn’t seem like the day would settle for anything less than sour attitudes and spilled blood. Shame. 

RJ guided his horse, Glenda, to the stable. The muck-filled stalls and rotten straw gave him pause. Best to finish this quick and find that cornbread elsewhere he thought.

The clink of spurs echoed through the street as the church bell rang out twelve peals between the crowds bated breath.  Forget the sermons and songs, this was legend in the making. Two men set to battle and only one to walk away. 

“Ten paces, easy as you like. You get six slugs, but I’ll only need the one. Tip your hat to the boss when you catch him down south. Tell him Billy sent you.”

“You gonna jaw all day or do you want to die?”

“On the count then, old man.”

“One,”

…

“Two,”

…

“Three!”

Two quicksilver hands whipped up their guns and fired. The street silent before the slump of a body. A drip and an “I’ll be damned,” followed. A second slump and the crowd was left in wonder. 

Two slugs found the mark. Heart and head, RJ & Billy, respectively. 

Don’t wrap up your desires in the hands of fate. You’ll go hungry more oft than not. A young boy watched the fall of two titans and wiped away yellow crumbs from his mouth. His fingers itching for his own chance at destiny.