Bleak

November 27, 2024November 17, 2024 ~ afstewart ~ 4 Comments

They huddled together under tattered blankets, a mother and daughter hidden in the shadows of the abandoned building. Outside, the wind rattled against the walls and howled through the cracked windows; the noise drowned the rumblings of their hungry bellies. Weeks of running left them exhausted, yet neither slept. Fear kept them awake.

The girl whispered, “Was there ever a better world than this one, Mama? Grandma said there was. A place where we didn’t always run, didn’t hide. Where daddies and raiders never hunted and hurt us.”

Her mother squirmed. “Perhaps, sweetie. Once. I have vague memories, but they might be only dreams. If it existed, it was a long time ago and it’s never coming back.”

“Like Grandma?”

An intake of breath, a pause, and then, “Yes. Like Grandma.” There was a soft sigh. “What happened to Grandma is why we run, why I teach you. Now tell me the three rules.” She patted her daughter’s hand.

“Yes, Mama. Rule 1: Never trust anyone, not even if they’re nice to you. Rule 2: Try to be kind, but be cruel if you have to.” Her lip quivered. “Like we were with Grandma when we left her?”

“Exactly. She couldn’t keep up and leaving her behind distracted those raiders. Now what’s rule 3?”

“Rule 3: Don’t be weak. The strong live. The strong make it to the Promised Land. The strong dodge the raiders. The strong will be free. No masters, no daddies. No one to hurt us.”

“Good.” She tousled her daughter’s hair. “Never forget those rules. Never break them. If we’re smart, we’ll escape. Now get some sleep. We move out with the sunrise.”

“Tell me about the Promised Land, Mama. It helps me sleep.” The girl snuggled against her mother, burrowing into the blankets.

Words drifted on the darkness. “The Promised Land is a safe place, a place without raiders, or masters, or cruelty, where the fear of engines doesn’t exist. Women don’t have to worry there, don’t fear being hurt, or killed, or enslaved. We won’t have to run, or hide, or go hungry. It’s where we can be happy. Where we don’t have to live by the rules of men.”

The girl closed her eyes, dreaming of a beautiful land as she fell asleep. Her mother kept watch over her, listening for the sound of the raiders’ engines…

Weeks later, their long journey behind them, they left the wasteland and found a place of grassy scrub and a cracked road leading north. Taking her daughter’s hand, the mother squeezed and murmured, “We’re almost there, sweetie. Almost to the Promised Land, to safety.”

Two more days found them outside a neglected settlement, overgrown with vegetation and vacant of life. A broken fence surrounded rustic, disused houses and buildings. As they drew closer, they noticed an open gate crookedly swinging on rusting hinges. Walking inside, a faded sign greeted the pair, mocking them with the ruined, peeling letters: P R O I S M E D A N D.

The girl looked around and tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Is this it, Mama?”

“Yes.” The word cut cold in the air and held despair in its depths.

“But it’s empty, Mama. Where are the people? Where’s the Promised Land?” She stared at her mother, watching the woman’s expression harden. “Are we safe yet?”

“No.” The sound almost choked in her throat. “It’s gone. It’s all gone. There is no Promised Land, no safety. They destroyed it too.” She looked at her daughter as the sound of engines roared in the distance. “It was all a false dream. It was all for nothing.”

She bent down and tilted her daughter’s chin, staring into her eyes. “There’s one more thing to learn, sweetie.” Her other hand reached into her travelling bag. “Rule 4: Everyone lies. Even me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, sweetie.” She brushed her daughter’s hair with her fingers and straightened. “I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere to run and hide anymore and I can’t go back.” She smiled at the confused child. “I’m so sorry.”

From her bag, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself in the head, blood spraying her daughter’s upturned face. The nearing sound of engines mixed with the girl’s screams.

~ A. F. Stewart

Demure

November 20, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

The only time I truly feared my wife was when she saved my life. In our courtship, I had always thought her demure. I had thought her propriety was what kept our rendezvous under the bright light of day, where none could whisper of clandestine meetings by candlelight.

Yet even then, in her modesty there was an air of mystery. Of possibility. Intriguing, alluring—a question waiting to be asked.

It seemed more strange, then, when her moonlit modesty extended into marriage. When we spent our wedding night apart, I worried that she may be a question without answer. She set those fears to rest as she woke me with the full heat of her daylight passion, and all thoughts of the cold night were pushed from my mind.

And so our not-quite-typical marriage passed in days together, nights apart, but I was too enamoured to wonder at it all. Why question perfect contentment?

Until that night of the broken glass. The fear woke me before I could identify the sound. Muffled by distance, but sharp and sure. I moved to the door without thinking, driven only by my deepest fear. Not for me—but for her.

At the end of the corridor, the glass glittered in the moonlight. But there amid the light was a darkness—a person. He looked at me. And lunged.

I hit the ground with such force that my breath left my body. As his hands wrapped around my throat, I was not sure that I would have the chance to draw breath again. He was bigger than me, stronger than me. But then a still-larger shadow fell across us.

I do not know which chilled me more: the scream or the growl. His weight was lifted from my body, and I gasped for breath. But as I watched him flail against the hold of teeth and claws, I felt a new breathlessness overtake me. His blood pooled dark in the moonlight. His flailing shuddered and stopped.

I could not move. Not as the great shadow tossed his body aside. Not as the creature turned towards me, its fur darkly gleaming, its eyes bright, its muzzle bloody. It moved slowly now. Sniffing at me gently, softly. Demurely.

I reached out slowly, and her massive head nuzzled against my hand. My fingers were lost in the warmth of her fur. Her eyes were changed, but she looked at me with a love that I knew well. And in that moment, all my questions were answered.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Nature is Red

November 13, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

The neighbor’s dog was staring at him through the fence. He quickly lifted the air rifle and fired. There was a distinct yelp as the pellet made contact. The dog disappeared. He smiled in satisfaction. First blood of the day; it hopefully wouldn’t be the last. There was a call from indoors.

“Jeremy dear, is everything okay?”

“Yes, mother, nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good, dear. Enjoy yourself!”

He reloaded his gun. His pockets were full of lead pellets and he was headed out into the countryside to see what he could kill. He suspected he would enjoy himself.

He walked down the lane towards the woods. It was Wednesday; he was meant to be at school, but he’d persuaded mother he was too ill to go. He’d also persuaded her to let him go to the woods with his air rifle. He told her it was for target shooting; he just hadn’t clarified the targets he had in mind were still alive.

It was spring, and the trees were green, giving plenty of cover for the wildlife. He entered the woods and sat on a log. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and peered through the scope. The woods were alive with noise and he watched the branches carefully. A bird landed on a nearby tree. He levelled his gun, aimed and fired. The bird fell in a pathetic heap on the ground. First kill. Keeping his eye against the scope, he surveyed the bushes. Pop! Another bird fell dead, then a third. Jeremy was both a sadist and a crack shot.

He moved from spot to spot, each time killing a couple of birds. He didn’t bother with the corpses; he wasn’t interested in anything but killing. Time passed quickly. Four o’clock found him sitting in a wooded glade, miles from anywhere. Through the scope, he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him from a bush. He recognized them as human, but he was still tempted to fire. He stood.

“You might as well come out.”

A kid of about ten emerged.

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“Cool gun. Can I touch it?”

“No, you’re just a kid. This isn’t a toy.”

He stretched.

“What are you doing? Are you hunting?” asked the kid.

“I’m heading home. I’m getting bored, shooting birds is too easy.”

“We could go up to the stone circle. I saw some bigger birds up there the other day. Rabbits too.”

The notion of fresh blood was too tempting.

“There better be kid, or I’ll thump you.”

“I promise.”

“Let’s go then.”

Jeremy climbed the hill to the ancient stone circle, with the boy following. The stones sat on top of a low hill, overlooking the village. Jeremy had been up here numerous times, forced by mother to go on Sunday walks, or with his teacher, on field trips. His teacher had mentioned something about the history of the circle in class, but Jeremy hadn’t been paying attention. Something to do with Pagan rites.

He knelt and propped his weapon against a fallen stone. The boy knelt down beside him. Jeremy scanned the area but saw nothing.

“There’s nothing here, kid.”

The boy pointed.

“There! A fox!”

He was right, just at the edge of the circle stood a fox, sniffing the air. It hadn’t noticed them. Jeremy put his eye to the scope and pressed the trigger. The creature dropped.

“And that seals the deal,” said the boy beside him in an adult voice.

“Huh?”

The boy jumped up onto the stone. He started to spin, round and round.

“What the fuck are you doing kid? Stop it, before I thump you.”

The spinning became a blur; it wasn’t possible, but it was happening right before Jeremy’s eyes.

“Stop!”

The boy stopped, but he was no longer a boy. In front of Jeremy stood a vision from hell. The figure had the legs of some sort of animal and the top half of a human, except for the two horns that sprouted from his forehead.

“What the hell? Who are you?”

The creature wagged its finger playfully.

“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. I thought you’d recognize me. Your poor old mummy would be disappointed after paying so much for that expensive school.”

He hopped down from the stone.

“I’m Pan.”

“Huh?”

“The god. Nice to meet you.”

“Huh?”

“You failed today’s test, you know. You killed too many animals.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh well, what’s done is done. Let’s not dwell on your stupidity, let’s move to the main act.”

“What’s that?”

“Nature, red in tooth and claw. Isn’t that what you humans say?”

“I think so.”

The creature stared at him.

“Gosh, you are dumb, aren’t you?”

“You’re rude. I’m going home now.”

Jeremy turned to leave the stone circle, but realized he was surrounded by all sorts of creatures. There were deer, foxes, badgers, rats, mice, dogs, rabbits and cats.

“I’m afraid you can’t leave. My friends have come to meet you, to see the monster that decimated their ranks. You killed for pleasure, for no reason at all. I wouldn’t have minded if you hunted for food, but just for sport? No. Horrible, only humans are cruel enough to do that. And so, I have a little lesson in mind for you.”

“A lesson? What do you mean?”

“Well, at the risk of spoiling the surprise, we are here to show you, convincingly I might add, that nature is indeed red in tooth and claw. Very red.”

The animals around him moved closer. Jeremy didn’t even have the chance to scream.

∼ RJ Meldrum

Watch This

November 6, 2024July 10, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The flea market had become a ritual. Greg and Lydia rarely found anything, but when they did, it was heralded as monumental. They called their excursions “fossil hunting,” and many of their finds were truly relics.

Some of the vendors at the flea market were regulars and the couple barely gave their wares a glance. Their apartment only had room for a certain number of salt and pepper shakers or crocheted toilet paper concealers. They focused on the new vendors, and this week the nostalgic display in the corner captured their attention.

“This is so 80s,” Lydia whispered with reverence. She fingered a rack of fluorescent jelly bracelets.

Greg picked up a semi-inflated basketball. “Watch this,” he said, trying to spin the ball on his finger. He managed to nearly clear the trinkets from a nearby table as the ball wobbled and he shifted to center it.

As Lydia was deciding between the lime green fingerless mesh gloves and the argyle leg warmers, Greg called to her, “Remember this?” He was elbow-deep in a bin of records. He pulled an album from the stack and held it up for them both to see. The cover was a hypnotic spiral. Staring at the spiral and relaxing one’s eyes would make the name of the band appear. “This is trippy.”

“That was the first one with a ‘Tipper Sticker’.” Lydia tried to remember what had been so offensive about it. But offensive was as bound to time and place as any other concept.

Greg lowered his voice, “Playing it backward would make a demon appear.”

She laughed. “Right.”

“Seriously. That is what happened to them. To the band.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “They died because their cocaine was poisoned with strychnine or something.”

“Where do you get your information? They were torn apart, long slashes on each of their bodies. Strychnine doesn’t do that.”

He dug in his pocket for some money while she typed into her phone. She turned the screen toward him. “Google says ‘poison’.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. You really think they would publish stories about honest-to-God demons?”

She shrugged “There is nothing honest about it. Just urban legend, but you do you.”

He turned the album over in his hands, inspecting the cover from all angles. “I am getting it.”

“We don’t have a record player.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a relic. When archeologists uncover our apartment from beneath the meteorite that will crush us, I want them to find this psychedelic specimen and know that we were true connoisseurs.”

By the time they returned home, he had scrutinized every inch of the album. Each time he had a new idea about the Escher-esque cyclone on the cover. “That would be what a demon’s lair looks like, right?”

“I guess.” She tilted her head. “Looks like a demented fan with warped blades.

He nodded appreciatively. “That might be what got to the band: warped blades…something made those gashes on their bodies.”

“If you believe that rubbish.” She sighed. “It’s a shame that good old fashioned overdosing has lost its glamour.” She went into the kitchen to make them sandwiches for lunch. “Why would a band play their own album backwards?”

“Because they were in that sophomore slump. They needed another hit; they needed to keep the train rolling.” He pulled the vinyl from the cover. “Watch this,” he said as he spun the record clockwise on his finger while humming the theme song of the Harlem Globe Trotters.

“Wow. They should sell you at a flea market. Your references would be the oldest thing there.”

He began to spin it counterclockwise. “Bet I can make it play if I spin fast enough.” He gave the vinyl a few hard spins before putting his fingernail into a grove.

High decibel screeching came from the album.

“If that doesn’t call a demon, I don’t know what would.” He laughed, but she did not join in.

She felt clammy and dizzy. She began to saw through the hardened bread faster, believing her blood sugar level was dropping.

“Watch this,” he called again, spinning the album faster and making it wail with the placement of his fingernail.

“I…” She grabbed the counter with one hand, fearing she would fall to the floor without its assistance. She heard odd words coming from the record. The words were compelling; the words ordered her to do horrible things.

“Almost sounds like a chant,” Greg said, not noticing the change in Lydia. If he had, he might have been able to save himself.

The words built into a frenzy, a confusion of chaos, the verbal version of the album’s psychedelic cover. Her glowing, red eyes were focused on the knife she had been using on the bread. The chant was about the knife. It told her what to do with the knife.

“This is messed up.” Greg shook his head, believing this was all in fun.

Lydia could no longer remember who Greg was or what he meant to her. She could no longer remember where she was. Her mind was consumed with the knife and with the voices that were imploring her to use it.

The album whirled and the voices wove a powerful, insistent, and necessary story. Her hands felt far away and as if someone else were now in control of them. A part of her waged a war to keep the knife on the bread.

As the album continued to shriek, she lost the battle.

∼ Elaine Pascale