The Winter Mice

June 25, 2025June 19, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

In the summers they could forage or hunt to find food. Despite the destruction, food could still be found. Shelter wasn’t necessary, the weather was warm and they could comfortably sleep outdoors. It was only in the winters they needed to go indoors to seek shelter and scavenge for scraps to eat. They knew they couldn’t survive the harsh cold without refuge.

In late October the family, unnoticed, snuck into the lower level of the creatures’ habitation. They were awed by the size and scale of the structure; it was unimaginably huge and they felt very small and insignificant, but they had no other choice. They either sheltered here or they died.

The family avoided the traps, clumsily left out to catch them. The creatures were obviously aware of them, but didn’t seem to overly care about their presence. The pathetic number of survivors weren’t a threat to them, the surviving remnants had lost their status as the dominant species on the planet. The creatures no longer hunted them and except for the traps, the survivors were left to their own devices.

The family made a comfortable bed of straw and scavenged cloth amongst the other groups of other survivors. John looked round to make sure the children were settled. He saw tears cascading down Amanda’s face. She hadn’t really adapted to this new life, not even after two years. He took her hand and smiled, desperate to cheer her up.

“It’s not all bad, my love. The aliens might have eliminated most of humanity, but at least they let us shelter in their ships.”

∼ RJ Meldrum

The Motorcycle

June 18, 2025March 1, 2025 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The motorcycle was a classic: unique and sleek. She had fallen for Drew at the same time he had acquired it and it became a physical manifestation of their love. Their courtship had involved ambling rides through the countryside. The bike had participated in their honeymoon, towing camping gear in the cargo sidecar. And most weekends of their marriage had included a leisurely ride. When they stopped at the dens of serious riders, they were not rebuffed. She loved when the hulking, hairy men called the bike “cute” and patted it as if stroking a kitten on its proffered furry cheek.

The motorcycle provided relief from a steamy day. It provided freedom. She was accustomed to sitting behind him, to wrapping her thighs around his hips and leaning into him as they wound their way through villages and farmlands. She had been a remora, covering his back and his need for company, while he led the campaign. They had seen places that they convinced themselves went completely ignored by the strait-laced in their coffin-like cars.

Then a coffin became something in their lives.

When Drew’s diagnosis became unavoidable, she had asked him what she should do with the motorcycle after… . There were no words for after after. She was convinced she would have no life after after.

Drew had requested that she keep it. He seemed convinced that she would be able to handle it, handle all of it—the motorcycle, his death, her loss—on her own.

After Drew passed, she could barely bring herself to enter the garage. So much of it was him. The tools, the exercise equipment, the motorcycle. She eventually was able to enter so that she could bestow some of his possessions on his friends. Then, she truly resided in the after. He was gone, most of his things were gone, and she was alone.

On a day that was too gorgeous to ignore, she decided to ride the bike. Drew had convinced her years ago to get her license, but she had rarely been in control of the vehicle. She wanted to feel that freedom again, she wanted to stop living with death and feel alive again.

She circled the motorcycle, noticing that at times her shadow split into two. And at those times, it looked like Drew’s shadow had joined her own, but that was just her mind playing tricks on her.

She put on her helmet and straddled the bike. She felt only the humming seat between her legs. This was so different from when his body used to be in front of her, acting as a shield, acting as a comfort.

She decided she deserved a ride into the mountains. She hadn’t been since prior to his diagnosis and the leaves were at their most colorful point. At times, and at turns, she swore she could still feel Drew, his solid hips, his long back, his ribs swimming in and out with his measured breath. It had been so long since she had felt him physically that this phantom sense made her ache.

She swore she could smell Drew and wondered if he had ever worn her helmet by accident. The smell increased the aching which had developed into a throbbing sensation. The warm, leather seat reminded her of his large hands and she sped up the bike with a sense of urgency that was all in her mind.

She saw lights flashing in the mirror on her handlebar and a quick “blip” from a siren behind her told her she had to pull over.

She slowed the bike onto a shoulder of empty road that was shrouded by trees. As the wind blew through the foliage around her, her shadow shifted and broke, splitting into two again.

She removed her helmet so that the police officer could see her face and she stepped off the bike.

She watched him approach and noticed that he looked up and down the road as he got closer. His eyes were covered with reflective sunglasses and he had a neck gaiter pulled up over his nose and mouth.

“Beautiful day,” he said through the gaiter. He was wearing leather gloves and a knitted skull cap pulled over his hair. She found the cap and gaiter odd and hoped he would give her a ticket and quickly leave.

He stood and looked at her without speaking, which, again, she found odd.

“Why was I pulled over, officer?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head slowly and made a “tssk” sound. “That’s kind of rude, isn’t it? I asked you if you thought it was a beautiful day and you completely ignored me. Only interested in getting down to business, aren’t you? Completely rude.”

Her stomach dropped, registering how alone they were. No one had seen them pull over; no one would hear her call out on this deserted road.

He reached in his pocket and as her eyes followed his hand, she realized his pants were swollen at the crotch.

She remembered a report on the news about a rapist impersonating a cop.

Before her mind could process these thoughts, his arm was around her neck and he dragged her away from the bike. His free hand held a knife which he pressed into her side.

“You are going to step back into the woods with me,” he instructed, “and you are going to keep quiet, or else this knife will find its way across your throat.”

She struggled against him, but his hold was tight.

Through tears, she watched her shadow as he dragged her. She had not one shadow, but two. The smell of Drew was stronger than ever.

The fake police officer shoved her to the ground, the knife sharp against her throat.

“Please,” she begged, “I haven’t seen your face, you could let me go.”

He laughed. “And why would I do that?”

She saw the motorcycle lights come on over his shoulder and heard the hum of its motor. “Because…we are not alone…”

∼ Elaine Pascale

I See Your Night, and Raise You Hell

June 11, 2025May 20, 2025 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 5 Comments

I was crossing the University of Arkansas campus at Fayetteville with my wife, Rachel, when a young male student approached us and said something weird. It was Saturday and there weren’t many people around. Just a few moments before, I’d found an odd-looking pencil on the sidewalk and some impulse made me pick it up. It was lime green and about twice the length and heft of a regular #2 pencil. I figured it might belong to an artist or something and still had it in my hand when the kid made his comment.

“Looks like you could stab someone with that thing,” he said, pointing at the pencil. “Do some serious damage.”

Now, Rachel and I were older than your average college kid and both of us were dressed well. I wore a jacket and tie. Surely the kid would have thought of us as parents or perhaps considered us faculty. What student says that kind of thing to parents or to faculty members he doesn’t recognize?

The comment clearly made Rachel uncomfortable, so I just ignored the guy and walked on. We were here to see Rachel’s son and within a few moments found his dorm room and began our visit. A little while later I had to use the dorm’s bathroom and was standing at the sink washing my hands when the same young man came up beside me.

“Stabbed anyone with that pencil yet?” he asked.

Irritated, and not eager to have an uncomfortable discussion with a strange young fellow in the bathroom, I snapped, “No! And it’s not in my plans for today.”

He smiled crookedly. “Look,” he said. “I know you’re a psychopath. I recognize you because I’m one too.”

I sighed, then reached beneath my coat and drew out the silenced 9-millimeter I generally carried in a shoulder holster. Quickly placing the business end of the pistol against the young man’s chest just over the heart, I pulled the trigger.

“Phfhfft.”

The kid’s eyes widened but my movements had been too swift for him to react. He collapsed slowly to the floor, like a blow-up doll deflating. He kept looking up at me as life fled him.

“When psychopaths meet, it’s best for one to kill the other immediately and get it over with,” I told him.

Holstering the pistol, I left the bathroom. I kept the pencil. The kid was right. It was a great tool to put through someone’s eye into their brain. On a college campus like this, I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before the perfect target presented itself.

∼ Charles Gramlich

Twang

June 4, 2025February 19, 2025 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 3 Comments

There was an audible twang. Turning back, he wrinkled his brow in disgust. Four! Four perfectly placed stitches had torn loose so far. He was baffled and more than a bit annoyed. Peering at the remainder of the skein, he examined it for defects; it looked perfectly fine. He wrapped a short length around his fingers and gave a hard tug. He received nothing but resistance for his effort. A bit perplexed, his fingers slipped between her lips to remove the defective stitch; he inspected it thoroughly with a loop before discarding it with the others.

Making his way to the old apothecary cabinet his grandfather had used many years ago, he opened each draw until he finally found what he was looking for. Cat gut! Sometimes the old fashioned way was the only way. Threading the much thicker needle with the coarse sinew, he again finished the sutures. He stood and stared in consternation for a good ten minutes willing them to stay fast yet daring them to break free. Finally satisfied, he turned to reach for the clay and began the final stages of reconstruction.

Two hours later, after finishing the cosmetic details, he gazed down upon the face he had just rebuilt and was pleased with his efforts. He’d done a fine job of covering the blemishes and abused areas. She looked peaceful, but the sedative would soon wear off. After a brief wait, a slight murmur reached his ears; one eye began to tear open. As his grandfather used to say, ‘death was just around the corner, one had to always be prepared,’ though he doubted his grandfather had meant it in quite the same way.

With a deep sigh, he inserted a trocar into her femoral vein to drain the body, then moved to insert another into her brachial artery to introduce the embalming fluid. The art of embalming was one so few had the opportunity to appreciate. Apparently, she was not in an appreciative mood.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela