Crusty Foulers

January 31, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The text contained only one word: Sorry.

Typically, their exchanges were memes that mutated into gifs that advanced to snarky comments that evolved into competitive complaints about family obligations, traffic, and the weather. This simple, plaintive word was cause for alarm.

Lana tried Facetiming. Then she tried calling. There was no answer. The last time they had been together had been only a few days before when they had returned from a girls’ trip. They had chosen a short cruise, all inclusive. Clara had wanted a few days of not having to cook or clean or worry about calories. Lana had wanted fresh air and stimulation that came from anything other than the fluorescent light above her cubicle and the hold music she so often faced during business calls. Most of all, they wanted time together, uninterrupted. An ocean voyage had checked all boxes and they had packed together on Facetime, approving each other’s choices of vacation-wear.

They had planned to “twin” for their final dinner on board. This was a tradition they had begun over two decades before. At that time, they would twin for school, linking arms and walking the halls as if conjoined. They would infuriate their teachers by going to each other’s classrooms and they drove their parents crazy with insisting that they have twin sleepovers, often squeezing into a shared and strained sleeping bag.

For their twin dinner, they had packed matching dresses, barrettes, purses, and shoes. Physically, they looked nothing alike, yet their twin costume announced to the world that they were inseparable. As they were applying their finishing touches, Clara pulled out a tube of lip gloss from her makeup bag.

“Where did you get that?” Lana eyed the tube that looked naked without a label.

“My evil stepmother.” Clara laughed. “The witch finally did something right.”

“The first time in what…when did he marry her? Fifteen years ago? Twenty?”

Clara smacked her lips together, the gloss adding a coral sheen. “Feels like forever ago. She put a spell on him, a curse on the rest of us.”

“Especially us crusty foulers.” Lana wore the name given to them by Clara’s stepmother with pride. The woman accused them of being barnacles: overly attached to each other and a discomfort to others. She, more than any other, hated their twin games and would often mutter curses beneath her breath as they strolled around arm in arm.

“She talks like a longshoreman.”

“Smells like one, too.”

As Clara’s stepmother never failed to share her disdain for their friendship, this present for their vacation was completely unexpected.

Clara handed the gloss to Lana and watched her apply it. “The funny thing is she said it was created especially for my skin tone. But it works on you, too, and we are opposite ends of the color palette.”

Lana shrugged. “Black magic.”

***

They had both cried when it was time to leave the ship. They had been sad about having to return to their stressful lives, and stressful jobs, and stressful commutes. They had been saddest about having to separate again. In the days after returning, Lana had felt a matchless form of loneliness. Then she had received the mysterious text.

Lana wished she could spend more time trying to reach her friend, but she had to get ready for work. As she showered, she noticed a pain beneath her breasts. When she tried to investigate with her hand, she was met with a surface so sharp that it lacerated her fingertips. Panicked, she rushed to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam away, to see barnacles beneath each armpit and under her breasts.

“This is crazy,” she whispered. She could hear the stepmother’s voice, dripping with vitriol as she said “crusty foulers.” How could they have been so stupid, believing the woman had given a gift with good intentions.

Lana knew she had to see Clara; she had to confirm that the symptoms were real, that she wasn’t losing her mind.

As she drove the short distance between their homes, she saw the skin on the backs of her hands shift from smooth to crusted with protuberances.

Lana smacked her palms on Clara’s door, calling for her friend. It felt as if it took hours for Clara to answer, but it had only been minutes.

“Lana!” Clara’s face was swollen from crying. She flung herself into Lana’s arms. “I am so sorry. I should have known. That witch. I should have known.”

“We only called her a witch to be mean, we didn’t really think—”

“I did,” Clara murmured into Lana’s neck, which was now wet with tears. “I always suspected…the things that went on in that house, the way my dad changed. I just never had proof and now…” She pulled back as if to examine her chest but found that their torsos were fused tightly together.

“Oh my god, pull,” Lana instructed. She tried sliding a hand between them to see if she could unhook them the way a cat’s claws could be unlatched when snagged on material.

“I can’t,” Clara was able to take a step back with her right leg, but her left had fastened to Lana’s. “It’s getting worse.”

“I am going to push you and it might hurt,” Lana warned uselessly, as her right hand had become affixed to Clara’s back. She had an odd recollection of playing Twister when they were younger, and how they had toppled to the floor, tangled together and laughing. As children, they had wanted to be together always. They hadn’t imagined it would be this hazardous.

Lana tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult as Clara’s chest weighed against her own. When she tried again, they fell, landing heavily and unable to do more than squirm against the carpet.

Their bodies were becoming less and less distinct as they combined into one crusty shell.

Clara’s forehead melded into Lana’s nose. “Remember how we didn’t want to leave the cruise ship? We didn’t want to say goodbye?” Clara asked, her lips still able to move.

“Yes,” Lana responded, but it was more of a last breath being expelled as their faces attached.

“Now we never have to.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

Open Door

January 24, 2024January 10, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

“Are you sure you want a Ouija Board? Especially given that that stuff is… real now. I mean proven.” Reggie ran a finger along the edge of his bandana, sliding stray grey hairs back into place. “You just don’t know…”

Tony pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “I know what I’m doing. It’s because it’s proved I want this tattoo. I’m gonna be a conduit.” He unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the metal tray. “Chicks will love it.”

The old tattoo artist glanced down at the photo. “I know what one looks like, son. What I don’t know is why you want it… on you. That seems risky to me.” He folded the photo and handed it back. “Put that away. The spirit world ain’t a joke.”

“Look. You do tatts for money, right? Are you discriminating?” Tony took out his wallet and showed off a wad of bills. “I got money.”

“How can I be discriminating? We’re both the same race, stupid. I just think…” Reggie glanced at the money in the wallet. “Fine, it’s your funeral. Let’s do it.”

The outline didn’t take but a few hours. When it was done, Tony lay on the table with a double row of alphabet arching his chest over his nipples. Beneath them was a straight line of numbers and a third line that simply said goodbye. Beneath his right collar bone was the word yes. Beneath the left was no. Reggie held up a mirror so Tony could see.

“Sweet,” said Tony. “I can’t wait to see that filled in.” He sat up. “Check this out.”

From his pocket, Tony pulled out a large, silver planchet on a chain. “I’m gonna wear this so I can be played with anytime.” He lay back down in the chair and put it on his chest. “Try me, dude.”

Reggie stepped back. “No way, that stuff ain’t a joke. Put it away.”

Tony laughed, reached for the planchet and froze in mid reach. He lay back down, blank faced.

“Knock it off,” said Reggie. “My shop, my rules. That shit’s not welcome here. Not ever.”

“I am not welcome here?” asked Tony. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling. His voice came out flat and without inflection. Beads of sweat popped up along the old man’s spine.

“No, not here.” Reggie licked his dry lips and slid along the counter towards the door.

On Tony’s chest, the silver planchet twitched along his stomach muscles, down his happy trail to stop at the words goodbye inked on his skin. He jerked upright, catching the planchet in one hand. He stood up.

“Then I go.” He swung his legs off the bench seat and stood up. His wallet fell to the floor. “Payment for your work,” he said without glancing down. “Our contract is fulfilled.” Without another word, he left.

When Reggie finally moved, it was to lock the door and flip the closed sign. That was enough for today.

∼ Angela Yuriko Smith

First Day of School

January 17, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Amelia looked through the crud-covered windows of the family home. She felt no urge to clean them as the scene they would reveal was far from idyllic. The constant dust storms and polluted rain had turned what was once a desirable location into a gray, depressing collection of mostly abandoned houses. She held her hand over her mouth and shook her head to dispel the feelings of despair.

Tom, her husband, wrapped his arms around her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. The initial start that he had given her ebbed into a sense of security. She turned around and returned the embrace with an added kiss.

They both sighed and recomposed themselves before calling the children down from their bedrooms. Five minutes later Emma, Joanne, and Rebecca walked down the stairs.

“Let’s have a look at you, Emma,” Amelia asked. Emma was the oldest of their three daughters. She was eleven. She had rosy red cheeks and blonde hair. She was tall for her age, if not a bit thin. But then, everyone was thin in their family. The meager diet of oats mixed with a few greens didn’t lend itself to obesity, to say the least.

Emma shyly stepped forward and meekly smiled. “But I don’t want to go to school,” she complained.

“Now now, you know it’s time. Everyone needs an education and I can’t teach you anymore. What you learn will be important not just for you, but for everyone,” Amelia replied. “Don’t forget how lucky you are, most children don’t get a chance to go to school these days. You should be grateful to Dad for getting you a place.”

Emma sulked but then perked up for the sake of her family.

“But why does it have to be a boarding school, and why do I have to stay for so long?” she enquired.

“Darling,” her father replied, “the school is a long way away. You know we haven’t got any transport and with the rarity of gas these days they just can’t afford to run the school bus back-and-forth apart from at the end of the school year. Now get your things together. Look at the time, we’ve got to go or you’ll miss it.” He bent down and whispered in her ear “At least you won’t have to put up with Mum’s cooking until then.”

Emma giggled.

She said goodbye to her sisters before leaving the house, accompanied by her mother and father. They walked the fifteen minutes to the pick-up point at the old railway station. The last time the station had seen a working train was nearly a decade earlier. Within five minutes the rusty, once-yellow bus rattled its way around the corner. Emma hugged her parents, not wanting to ever let go. Eventually, she tore herself away from their embrace and boarded the decrepit bus. Tom spoke briefly to the school official.

Tom and Amelia slowly walked home. Before entering their house they stopped. They had lied to Emma and their other two daughters. Emma wouldn’t be coming home. After initial training, she would be sold off into servitude. A maid or cook to one of the wealthy families.

“At least she won’t have to go hungry living on what we can offer,” Tom said in way of reply to the question that wasn’t even asked. He held out his hand and showed Amelia the fifty silver coins that the ‘School’ official had paid them in way of compensation. “We’ve got to think of the whole family. This will keep us going for a few seasons, even more if we can save some of the grain we buy and manage to get some sort of harvest this year.”

Amila gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew he was right, but she had no idea what she was going to tell Joanne and Rebecca when Emma failed to return.

***

There were about thirty children on the bus. Emma was seated next to an auburn-haired girl called Stacy.

“I hope we get placed with the same family,” Stacy said.

“What do you mean. We’re going to school?”

“Oh, god. I’m so sorry, didn’t you know?”

“I want to go home” Emma cried.

Stacy comforted her as best she could. She tried to get her to look on the bright side. She explained all the benefits of being in service. Good food, nice clothes. Even with all the work, it’d still be better than what they had to put up with at home.

***

Back at Emma’s house, Amelia stared solemnly at the family photo which hung on the living room wall. She lovingly caressed the image of Emma.

***

The girls were escorted from the bus into a large waiting room. One by one they were called. When Stacy’s name was read out she turned to Emma and said she hoped to see her soon. After about five minutes it was Emma’s name that was called out. A stern-looking women took her by the hand and led her down a long corridor. They entered a large hall. In front of her were rows of seats occupied by the cream of what was left of society. Emma was told to stand in the center of the hall.

“Lot number twenty three” a man’s voice announced through speakers on the wall. “Eleven years old and in good health. Can we start the bidding at one thousand pieces of silver?” He asked.

And so the auction began.

All too soon it was over.

“Going once, going twice, Sold at two thousand seven hundred silver pieces” announced the auctioneer. The couple who had successfully bought Emma smiled at each other. It was an expensive purchase, but in these times fresh meat was extremely rare, and so cost a lot of money. Only the rich could afford to eat it. But this couple, as were all of the others in the auction room were very, very wealthy. Shortages of food meant nothing to them when anything they desired could be bought at a price.

***

Tom and Amelia dished up their tasteless family meal in ignorance. It appeared that Emma wasn’t the only person that had been lied to.

∼ Ian Sputnik

A Shadow’s Whisper

January 10, 2024December 12, 2023 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 4 Comments

Bloodied by my own thoughts and that which rages within me, I suffocate in the nearness of my own mind as it ruthlessly brutalizes what some would consider a soul.

Living with such agony is part of my nothingness; I cannot avoid the anguish that comes to me through doors that should be well sealed, shielded from such hated devastation. I beg this putrescence with which I exist for the briefest moment of solitude, longing to be unaware for an infinitesimal reprieve, yet it will never be granted.

I am fated to grasp that which I would avoid knowing. Trapped by what adores me with an innocence my very inhalation of breath betrays, longing all the while for an existence that remains lost to me. My mind is my confinement, escape a possibility that will shred all that I cherish.

All that I cherish… these words said with such conviction only prove me more the fool than I know myself to be. The jester’s role I choose willingly for the eternity that it shall be mine, as I would not wish its anguish nor bestow its grandeur upon another. What shines with blinding clarity from within gnaws its way toward the surface never to escape, ensuring my absolute isolation from the magnificence that would sing me to sleep and offer a world of brighter murkiness which dances just beyond reach.

Torture, this is within my reach. It engulfs my entirety, dulling each glimpse of the gleam caught by another’s eye, muddying every surface that would shine as the me who might have been had I not been locked away in this dungeon of madness. The key to my lock? I see it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eye to. It is sentient – it knows of the sway it holds over me. Entranced, I watch it dangle and shimmy in a breeze born of the hollow cavern that was once a thing of childlike promise within me. Yet sway further away it does with each passing eon encapsulated within the fraction of a moment. One upon another these waves of time pound relentlessly against my consciousness. Each moment stretched into an infinity while watched from below.

Ahhh, from below – that is where it crouches, watching and waiting for a chance to slip my guard; a minuscule crevasse in the wall though which it can seep. This night I believe it has gained entry for the echo of silence is all too deafening to allow feigned ignorance the opportunity to shield the undeserving such as I. Quivering bravado the only weapon against this consuming hatred.

I hear the thunder begin to rumble, I feel it resonate through my damaged psyche, I sense what is coming. Alone I will face all there is to conquer, all there is to fear. Tonight, something of greater menace stalks through the shadows of this storm.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

Heaven

January 3, 2024December 15, 2023 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 4 Comments

The spaceship jarred as it landed. The computer had brought me down safely from orbit, but I was half dead, choking for breath, mind spasming from lack of oxygen. The recycler had broken down. Even my space suit was nearly bled dry of air. Somehow, I made it to the airlock. I didn’t know this planet. Was the atmosphere breathable? I had no choice but to find out. The outer hatch opened under my desperate palm. I staggered through, fell to hands and knees, slapped my helmet release.

A breath shuddered into my chest. Warm. Languid. It fed me. My lungs filled; my body drank the air like nectar. I coughed myself back to life, then forced myself to my feet. The view froze me. A low mist coiled around my legs, as if I stood on a cloud. But up through the fog thrust metal trees, of copper, black iron, gleaming platinum. Their leaves chimed in a zephyr breeze. Above me, the sky was clear and golden, like melted butter.

And in that sky drifted a silver city. I heard trumpets belling, and rising over the city’s spires swept a flock of beings. They were white, blindingly white, with feathered wings.

For an instant I wondered if I had died, or if I lay dreaming with a brain damaged from oxygen loss. But I’d always understood the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that the creatures who dove toward me were angels. They began to sing. My heart swelled with the beauty. I lifted my own voice to join theirs.

The angels swirled before me in diaphanous glory, with luminous eyes honed and piercing. Their wings beat the mist. Their voices lifted higher and higher. For a moment I knew the harmonics of heaven. Then my voice faltered; I couldn’t match theirs. No human throat could capture this music. No human body could contain it. My heart hammered and hammered. Again my breath labored. The angels swarmed closer.

I wondered why they pointed at me as they sang? Why were their sweet lips drawn back over sharp, sharp teeth? Only when my ears and nose and eyes begin to bleed did I understand. This song was no song at all. In a rage of laughter, the angels of God tore me apart.

∼ Charles Gramlich