A clandestine collection of the most eclectic minds of horror. These anguished souls have stripped free their pretenses for your grotesque delight. The Pen of the Damned tread where you dare walk not. Breathe what you dare dream not. Share what you dare speak not.
Zoe disconnected the telephone call to Libby before the teenager had finished speaking. Who was she to tell an adult that it was not right, whatever that meant, and some lame excuse about not being allowed to return to the flat. As if.
From her flat window in the galley kitchen, Zoe contemplated the sentinel crow perched in an oak tree while its family foraged in the grass. It was a bright afternoon, and the local pub, The Ship, had been open for over an hour. Through the open window, a gentle breeze fanned Zoe’s thin, brown hair. The crow’s family pecked and cawed intermittently, a sharp sound over the din of the television in the living room. Josh, her five-year-old, flicked from one channel to the next, from one cartoon to another, seemingly unable to find anything to satisfy him.
The sentinel crow, with dark, glossy feathers and beady eyes, kept its watch. It was sitting so still it could be nailed to the tree as a cruel act of taxidermy. Bloody mummified, she thought bitterly. Above, three other crows tumbled in the blue sky, making an aerial chase for a small bird. A sparrow, Zoe thought, but she couldn’t be sure.
“I’m hungry!” Josh shouted from the living room in a voice loud enough to be heard over the artificial cartoon sounds of a spaceship blasting off. “I’m hungry!”
“And I’m thirsty,” Zoe mouthed while staring in the direction of The Ship, a ten-minute walk from the flat, five if she speed-walked. She craved a pint of lager, Carling, and a packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps. Just a couple of pints and a laugh with the barman. It wasn’t much to ask, but it was a wormhole to another universe.
A cacophony of caws signalled an attack from other crows. Sounds so sharp they could rip the sky wide open. A rainfall of black feathers covered the grass, sending the sentinel crow into the fray.
So engrossed was Zoe in the vicious attack on its own kind, that she didn’t hear the front door open, or her son’s footsteps outside as he scavenged in the neighbour’s bins.
An injured crow lay motionless on the sunlit grass until vicious beaks tearing at its flesh brought its blackness to a parody of life.
I stumbled upon her in deepest, verdant woods, resting winged upon a throne of worn stone. Black tears bled down her face. She held a blade between her legs, a weapon that pierced my lonely heart. I could not help but love Cythraul. Every night I slept on the moss at her feet. Every day I knelt before her, enthralled, my hands lifted in appeal. It did not matter that she was a woman of no words, an avatar of chaos, perhaps a devil. She was mine. And I thought I would be forever hers. But one mist-filled morning she was gone, her throne empty. And so, in melancholy and forsaken desire, I seated myself upon her chair. My eyes began to weep in black; my shoulders began to ache as wings sprouted. Bereft of love, I will turn to stone, and wait.
An Interlude in Late Winter Marge Simon
As is his habit after dinner, he retires to the porch for a smoke. For a moment, he stands, smelling the crisp air before sitting down in his rocker. There’s a mystery about this evening, he feels it in his bones. Soon, cloaked within the shadows, a woman begins singing. She sings of a love lost and found again, a song that seems familiar, though he knows he is hearing it for the first time. He finds this unbelievable, yet already her voice is lulling him into a trance. He continues dreaming into the darkness of his garden, now hidden by snow and frost. Gradually he realizes he is seeing (and yet refusing to see) her emerge. She is unbelievably beautiful and she is walking straight up to him. Her eyes gleam with an uncanny light. Lost in her thrall, captive of her intoxicating kiss, he never feels the prick of her teeth or hears her throaty giggles as she drinks. He doesn’t remember till the dawn, when he awakes in bed next to the cold, lifeless body of his wife.
Late December in a freezing cemetery, a man kneels before a large tombstone. It is embellished with a glorious golden angel with outspread wings. Privately he finds it hideous, but it was her choice, the beautiful woman he now serves whenever she calls. His poor wife, buried six feet under, would never have been happy with the situation, so just as well.
Nemesis Lee Andrew Forman
I’ll wait as long as time will allow; until its very end, hanging on a bare thread. I count not years or decades, but millennia. Each passed without resurgence. But I know you’ll come eventually. Our last meeting, so long ago, but I remember every moment. I recall fire and death, the thick smoke filled with rot of the lesser kind. They pray to you, only to you. But you cannot save them—only delay the inevitable. I will rise again, until destruction has rained itself dry and all that remains is a brittle husk of what was once life.
Every Time You Fall Elaine Pascale
The statue was crying.
Black rivulets of oxidized bronze ran down its cheeks.
There was no emotion behind its tears, simply the evolution of metal.
The body lying in the grass had long since stopped crying.
There had been tears of fear. She had known what was coming when she realized that this would not be sex work, but would be something much, much worse. She had cried, but she had no one to cry out for. She was alone.
Her family would not be crying. Not yet.
Their status of no contact meant that they would not know she was gone.
And it was not certain that the news, once received, would be met by grief.
He was crying.
Some of the tears were just sweat from digging. Even though the ground had been softened by a recent official burial, the act was still strenuous.
Some of the tears were attributed to hope. He was placing her body on top of one that had been sent off ceremoniously. He hoped some of that love would rub off. He hoped that the body he was sinking into the ground would no longer be alone.
But most of the tears were from knowing that it was only a matter of time before his master hungered again.
Judgement Day A.F. Stewart
I see your sins, your pious hypocrisy, wrapped in your hollow indignation of righteous behaviour. You scream about moral decay, while hiding your own corruption. Such small minds, devoid of compassion and decency.
Yes, I see your sins.
For I am your judgment.
Not a fallen angel, but a willing devil, waiting for the day to fulfil my duty. I am creation’s sentence on wanton cruelty, its impatient destiny. I decry your politics, your entitlement, and any protestations of ignorance will not matter in the end. Time ticks down for you all.
For I know your putrid hearts and I will not be swayed.
Soon, I will take up my sword and cleanse the unctuous in my fire, rid the world of its liars and its sanctimonious frauds. The day of reckoning comes, where my shadow of judgment will scourge the earth.
In my wake, I will leave a legacy of scorched bones and screams.
You will thank me in the end.
Or you will die.
Fallen Angel RJ Meldrum
Sarah was an only child, forced to move to a town with an unpronounceable Welsh name by her mother after the divorce. It was ‘back home’ for her mother, but it was a desolate, strange place to Sarah. She felt lost, friendless.
Her only solace was the cemetery. It was disused, overgrown. Here she could find peace amongst the headstones; it was quiet, with only bird song and the rustling of leaves. Here she could forget her woes.
As she explored she encountered a statue of a female angel, replete with outstretched wings. There was a word etched at the base. Cythraul. An internet search turned up the English translations from the Welsh. Devil. Objectionable person.
Sarah wasn’t to know, but she had wandered onto unconsecrated ground. These were the graves of criminals and the insane. No blessing was whispered over these resting places. The grave over which the statue sat was special. Robert Morgan. Forgotten for decades, his reign of terror in the town during the early 1800s had resulted in the death of twelve young women before he was finally caught and executed. The statue, erected by the grieving families, was intended as a call for eternal vigilance, for the villagers swore he was possessed by the Devil. It was a warning long forgotten.
Sarah never wondered why the statue had been erected. It was just a peaceful, shady spot. She sat down on the grass and snoozed in the heat.
***
It was well after dark when the search party found her. Her crumpled form lay at the base of the statue. The grass was disturbed, the soil pushed up from underneath. There was no obvious link to the crime, but some of the more imaginative police officers felt it looked as if something had emerged from below.
I Watch Miriam H. Harrison
I am a Watcher—a holy one of wing and sword. Some look to me as a guardian. Some call on me in their hour of need. Some know me as an angel of vengeance, of justice, of last resort. Some pray, deeply.
They are all disappointed.
I am only what I am—a Watcher. I cannot lighten a burden. I cannot save you from what is. I offer no comfort but this: I watch. I see. Nothing escapes my weeping eyes. Your burden, your struggle, your loss. It is seen.
The Archangel Kathleen McCluskey
The battle worn warrior, his blade dripping with the blood of the damned, sighed deeply. Michael sat on the nearest rock as his heavy head hung in heartache. His long dark hair clung to his face in sweaty strands. The armor that had seen him through many battles, was now tarnished and stained with remains of the fallen. He slumped his shoulders and tried to compose himself. Michael’s once pristine white wings were now stained with crimson polka dots, the bottoms muddy with blood and earth, he flapped them violently. Large feathers floated about him as he pulled them in close to his body.
He stood and stretched, sheathing his broadsword. Michael looked around at the battle torn earth and shook his head. The mighty archangel looked at the carnage. He knew that his broadsword had taken the lives that he now stepped over. He was looking for those that had summoned his ancient adversary. The mighty Cithraul was a formidable foe, his minions were loyal, and gave their lives for their master. Michael had already sent the malevolent evil back to the underworld and was now focused on the cult members that summoned the wickedness.
The cult members were oblivious to the ramifications of summoning the Cithraul. When the name of his mighty archenemy is spoken during a spell, Michael awakens. The guardian of the innocent, waiting bound in marble, will remain vigilant for eternity.
Devil Wings Harrison Kim
I sit forever clasping this stave, rained on by your so-called God, my wings two stone birds on either side of a keyhole, open to the wild. You, the sinner, bow on your knees, hoping for my head to drop, to allow your soul a flight through the gap. Yes, you are still within your body. There is only one way out of your sin and guilt. Take the razors and slash a straight cut. To make sure, clasp the knife tight, slit your own throat. Release yourself and my head will drop.
All it takes is the will to be free. Freedom is there, on the other side of the keyhole, and can be reached only through your willful actions of repentance. Beyond will be emancipation, heaven in emptiness and weightlessness, liberation from your own body. Once released, your purified soul will rise before me cleansed, and fly through the keyhole gap, into the immortal beyond.
Go ahead, hit your body harder, smash into your bones until the flesh crushes into bruise. Of course, that won’t be enough. It never is. You’ll have to take up the knife, and slash. After all, sinner, God is dead and you can and may accomplish anything. This will be your last and greatest goal. Imagine the power and pressure of your guilt, and let it move you!
I will be here after you finish, my head of stone falling forward as you rise through the gap. When you’re past me, I’ll snap my neck back and no-one will know any difference, except for the sight of your corpse still kneeling with the bloody blade beside it and the knife through its neck.
Soon Nina D’Arcangela
I sit in repose and wait. She comes, or so the wind whispers. My bride, my forever-after, or rather my for-now; there have been others – she isn’t the first, nor will she be the last. Her song rang my ears in dramatic soprano fashion as flame licked her flesh, and I knew she would be mine. Eleven hours endured, yet still she pulls a charred breath. What hair didn’t crisp matted into the mélange of near liquid skin and cloth; so much agony, such useless suffering. I have waited near on a full whip of this moon for her to come. Soon, my sentinels confide, very soon.
The baby lies in the crib, struggling to breathe. Her parents are passed out in the next room, the television screams overpowering her feeble cries. She is on the edge of the veil. This little thing is so frail—I envy her delicateness. She will pass from this life to the next as easily as a sparrow flies through shade.
Impervious, I travel anywhere I please on this planet—unaffected by heat, ice and flame. I explore it all. Lava has sizzled on my cold skin as I sunk into molten depths and I rose up to find myself unscathed. I once sought to drown myself in the deepest cracks of the ocean floor. I walked along the barren depths for an age, but eventually I again rose, unscathed.
Immortality hangs around me like a chain. I am the First Darkness. I am the Father of Death. Shtriga, vrykolakas and strigoi… I have many names. I have been here from the beginning and will likely remain until the end is memory. I have limitless power, but this tiny, weak thing goes where I may not.
I bend over the human trifle, a shadow moving within shadow. I have a gift.
I slide my hand beneath it, cradling the flesh clad bones against my palm. It shifts against me, mewls and falls still. They never fight. My omnipotence quells the mortal struggle. I am inevitable. They sense it.
I stroke my finger along the sallow cheek. It smells of feces and nicotine. The baby is naked, but for the bloated diaper. I trace the web of blue beneath the skin. There is life here. It belongs to me so I may choose: take or give. I choose to give.
I open my mouth and the gates of Hell gape wide. Here have passed kings and paupers, creators and destroyers, mothers and daughters… I do not discriminate. I descend upon the infant, my lips of ice do not warm on her fevered flesh, and breathe into her.
I am the keeper of life force, and a taste of this I send into this child. Her chest swells at the incoming gust, nearly bursting the sacs of air within, but she holds. Her baby mind lights up, synapses firing as they form a new network beyond the map to mediocrity they were originally programmed for. I breathe into this child and it lives.
“You will suffer,” I whisper to the infant. “But your suffering will give you depth. You will burn, but your heat will warm this earth.” I lower the baby back onto the stained crib mattress. Her breath is strong now. She is strong now. She will do much in a lifetime before I return and take back my gift.
I exit the crooked, grey trailer in its nest of junk. It sags in an unkempt copse of tree and shrub. Tattered remnants of plastic bag and paper tremble in the bushes like ghosts. A skinny dog watches me from beneath the splintered wooden stairs. He whines softly, a plea to leave his life to him, in spite of suffering. His blood smells sour and doesn’t call to me.
I leave the hovel, following a trail of moonlight. Anyone watching would see only the shadow of a cloud passing across the moon’s face. Some, more keen, may notice the dancing of dry leaves at my silent step. Only the mad would see my true form.
I have given a gift, and now I must receive a gift to retain the balance. There is no method to my choosing. I am neither good nor evil. I am yin and yang. I am the eternal circle of life. I spy a tent draped in white roses, and I move toward it.
Behind the tent is a small, yellow house. The scent of golden anticipation wafts toward me, drifting through twilight, and I follow. It leads me up the wooden siding, through a trellis of wisteria, to find an open window. Thin eyelet curtains are the only barrier between me and the heady odor that calls. I traverse glaciers. I push through ice sheets that trap mammoths. I meditate on mountains so high the air can’t climb them. I push through the curtain easily.
A young woman lays in a tumble of sheets. Her hair is tangled from restless sleep. Laid out on a nearby chair is a dress of white satin and sequin. Veils, silk flowers and ropes of pearl cover a bedside table. She smells like hope, love and lavender dreams. I lick my lips and move toward her.
I stroke my finger along her blooming cheek. It smells of perfume and musk. Her bare shoulder lies exposed where the sheets have fallen, cream against white. I trace the web of blue beneath the skin. There is life. It belongs to me so I may choose: take or give. I choose to take.
I slide my hand beneath her, cradling the flesh clad bones against my palm. Her head falls back, leaving her neck open to me. I descend, a shadow moving within shadow. I take a gift.
I open my mouth against her skin and the pulse of her blood warms me. I pierce her, and all of her joy flows into me. I fill with her essence, a rich and fragrant life. I drink deeply until she goes cold and I grow warm. I lower the woman back into her cocoon of linen and depart. Outside, beneath the trellis of heavy, purple flowers, I find night bleaching into dawn. I make my way silently through the tent, and toward my own repose.
In the tent, I pluck a rose, hold it to my face and kiss it. My lips are still wet from her blood and the petals curl and stain with red. I inhale deep, relishing my rich and fragrant life. Immortality graces me like a chain. I place the reddened rose on the altar and depart.
Annabella thinks she is the custodian of the happy ending in her narrative. She slips through gravity into a character she decides. I watch her from the wings of the theatre of our house, with a mug of tea, and try to enjoy the show.
I like Rapunzel best, and Lady Macbeth least. Ophelia and Juliet make me think.
A tourist in her own life, sightseeing here and there, a magpie picking up roles to take home.
Words remembered from some place, but she summons my attention, delivers them sincerely as if her own sweat exists in every syllable; and as I bend down and kneel at her feet with a proposal on my lips drying like spit, she hurts me with sworn untruths.
I cannot stomach the drama in an empty theatre, her performing as if I am the lights, the music, the audience, so we walk to the park where she can have her audience. I indulge this once.
We hire a rowing boat. Annabella tells me she loves me which sculpts the clouds into angels and unicorns. The sun is shining and daffodils and tulips in the park decree it is spring. She smells of lavender and her voice, singing The Owl and the Pussy Cat, tickles my ears.
Annabella wonders how the oars sound as they caress the water; if our boat leaves an echo on the river the way someone’s laughter does on a listener’s smile; if the swans make a sound when they glide and stop, glide and stop, and how the eddies sound to the fish beneath.
Her hand trails in the water like a vapour trail in the clouds. She likes to leave a mark wherever she goes—my Annabella.
And she loves me, she says. And it is spring, and we are rowing nowhere in particular, and I close my eyes, just for an instant and pretend she isn’t lying.
Raindrops land on my eyelids. April showers. As I row the boat back the way we came, I think of the umbrella stand in our hall. It is always empty because she leaves them whenever she remembers to take one. She used to joke it was a way of making it easy for family and friends to buy her a present.
I bought her one once – a duck handle, which she said she adored – for two weeks.
Am I an umbrella of hers waiting to be held, only to be forgotten? Are there enough umbrellas in the world to catch her lies like rain?
Back at home, I say I need a shower. My hurt needs to be wet. The soreness lubricated after her abrasive tongue. Standing akimbo in the shower cubicle with the tiles swimming in and out of vision, I resolve to possess a greater beauty than her: the pure truth.
It has to be done.
Annabella is cooking something aromatic for supper, but it will go to waste. Soon she will know my feelings, and I will need to shower again.
When the Plague Doctor invited her to accompany him through Wicken Wood, Laosha was thrilled. So it was on a fall morning when the autumn air made her skin corpse stiff with chill, they set off. The Doctor never smiled, his lips were always wet and red as a festering sore. Laosha had enough smiles for them both, and told him so, but he only frowned. The journey was supposed to be all business until they were on their way back. She hoped he’d be stopping at some of his comrade’s lodgings, perhaps to share some dark magic for her own use. Of course, the Plague Doctor’s business was death, which he would be bringing to various residents of Wicken Wood.
Laosha was a sharp young woman. Everything about her was so, from her eyes to her chin, to her pokey thin elbows and knees, which she hid beneath her shadowy crepe cape. She was also quick witted, but alas, not this particular day. She was enjoying the crispy smell of leaves and loam, and thinking how yummy the meat pie in her pocket would taste when they stopped for lunch. Thus, she didn’t notice that her babbling was annoying the Doctor. Dangerously so, in fact. When he halted his mule and glared at her, her heart froze. With a snap of his fingers, he turned her into a log.
Silas, the Woodsman’s boy was out checking his traps when he came across log Laosha. He was instantly drawn to her, what with the coy little sprigs of weed in between her cracks. Indeed, she took his fancy. Silas was not very astute, but he knew his logs. He took her home to meet his family. Helpless, poor Laosha burned brightly, keeping the family cozy all night long.
Basilisk Charles Gramlich
Out of dirt and dying greenery, he is being born. From the pregnant earth. He is the Beast in the Wood
Only a mouth at first. So that he may masticate and consume. And grow. But then he begins to weave a skin of bark. It is tattered, incomplete, but holy with hunger. In time it will become an armor no weapon can pierce.
Next, an eye. So that he may pick and choose what he wishes to eat. The most nutritious, the most succulent, the most beautiful. Such as yourself. But he has no limbs and cannot come to you; he must make you come to him. And so he trains his gaze to entrance, enthrall, bedazzle. He will stare you into the caress of his teeth.
Lovely as death, he lies. Lovely as blood and rot. Infected with fungi and worms. Acrawl with the husks of beetles. Do not look! Do not turn your head into that gaze. If he sees you, he will know you. He will own you. And upon you he will feed.
From the Forest Floor Miriam H. Harrison
She could taste the detritus of the forest floor, smell the decay of moldering leaves, but she saw nothing. Existence was a slow process—it didn’t happen all at once. She was, but not fully. Not yet. More leaves would fall and decay. Winter’s snow would come and depart. But then, maybe then, amid the springtime rains she might look out and see the stirrings of life. She might even be ready to pull herself up from the forest floor, to lurch and lumber among the growing greenery once more. It would not be long, then, before she felt the hunger of the hunt. Not long before she again tasted the warmth of blood, felt the thrill of the kill, proving that she lived. Until then, she waited in her darkness, sipping at death, decay, existence. Waiting, knowing her time to drink deeply would come.
Lack of Quorum Elaine Pascale
The forensic scientist estimated that the victim had been alive when the dismemberment began. She claimed that the bites and scratches were from “a nonhuman mammal.”
The mortician was concerned that the prosthetics would be noticeable to the mourners. An open coffin had been insisted upon, which was unusual with damage to this extent. He believed he had seen these types of injuries before. He remembered being astounded that humans could inflict such harm on each other with only their bare hands.
The detective had repetitively walked a grid. He had looked up and down, he had combed the grass and used tweezers beneath the bark. It felt as if some supernatural force had inflicted implausible violence on the body and then disappeared without a trace.
The journalist had been warned to keep details from the public. She had no problem adhering to that counsel; the facts were so vague that there was very little to let slip.
The one thing they were in agreement on was the intent of the bloody utensils that had been left behind at the scene.
Salvation RJ Meldrum
The hunter followed the tracks of the moose. He was way off the beaten track, but determined to make the kill. He had no concern for his own safety; he was the apex predator, the lord of the forest. Nothing could harm him.
There was a tangle of fallen logs in front of him. Keeping an eye on the prize, he climbed over the damp logs without paying attention to where he was placing his boots. He felt his feet start to slip. Unable to recover, he reached down to grab hold of the logs to steady himself. His weapon slipped and it discharged into his calf. He dropped like a stone. He lay on the ground, amongst the damp leaves and rotting, fallen trees. His leg was on fire, the pain emanating through his body. He tried to rise, but it was impossible. His leg wouldn’t take his weight. He considered his options. There was no cell phone signal, not this far out. He lived alone, so no-one would miss him. He realized he was in trouble. He cursed his luck, wishing he’d put the safety on. He looked to the sky, praying for his god, any god, to send deliverance.
Darkness fell. He heard movement, but couldn’t see the source. It had to be another hunter or perhaps a rescue team. His prayers had been answered.
It was a wolf. He laughed; it was definitely a miracle…of sorts. A left-handed answer to his prayers. God obviously had a sense of humor. Salvation was at hand.
Kitten Karma Angela Yuriko Smith
The kitten watched the man come closer.
The Snatcher, she knew who he was. He trapped tough Toms in cages and they became helpless. He pulled mothers away from mewling kits and left the babies to starve. When The Snatcher got his hands on one of the Family, they were never seen again. The Family wasn’t happy.
She mewed to let him know she was there—a soft, velvet sound. Another human would have missed it but The Snatcher was listening for just such a sound. He stopped and turned toward her hiding place. He would find it. She was counting on him too.
He walked almost directly to her and knelt in the dry leaves to peer into the dark space in the dead wood. She mewed again, just to let him know she was there and followed with a loud purr. She wanted him to know she was happy to see him.
His face filled the opening between the fallen logs and he grinned. He was happy to see her too. Putting on his rough leather snatching gloves, he poked his hand into the dark, reaching. She backed up a little, tiny heart pounding in her chest. She mewed again, encouraging.
He was encouraged and he lay down in the detritus and thrust his arm in up to the elbow. She let his fingers graze her fur and she batted his hand to let him know how close she was. He adjusted his position and lunged for her… as expected.
The kitten jumped back as the metal teeth of the hidden trap snapped down on his wrist, breaking it. The boys that had set it earlier would be surprised to see what they caught. The Family was grateful for their help. They would be sure to leave some meat.
From Within Kathleen McCluskey
The land beneath the giant oak held an ominous secret. The beings that dwelled deep in the ground often made their way to the surface. They delighted in causing mischief and spreading their particular type of chaos. The terrified forest gnomes knew to avoid the area at all costs. Their very lives depended on it. The beings from within enjoyed the tiny, sweet tidbits that the gnomes’ bodies afforded.
Fallen branches from the oak began to rumble; the fairies and pixies covered their ears; they knew that the inevitable was about to commence. Out from the ground the creatures emerged, gnashing their massive teeth and sniffing the air. They all put their heads back in unison and howled. Their large tusks glinted off of the dabbled sunlight as they moved through the forest. The thick, black hairs that extended out of their heads shook and rattled; creating a hissing sound that echoed through the forest. They began to flip over rocks and other debris in search of their favorite treat. Their large talons left deep gouges in the forest floor.
The leader smiled broadly when he flipped over a fallen log and discovered his prize; forest gnomes tried to flee in every direction. The beast lifted his thick paw and crushed four gnomes; blood squirted out from between his toes. He looked around and immediately began to eat the gooey remains of his find. He slurped and sucked down the pieces of sweetness; blood dripped off of his chin. A low guttural purr emerged from the leader. He licked his fingers and his whiskers twitched. He was satisfied with his find and made his way back to the mighty oak. There he sank back down into the nothingness until the next time to feed.
Rest Stop AF Stewart
His footsteps snapped the brittle twigs and cracked the dry leaves littering the forest floor, the crunchy noise mixing with his panting breath. Sitting down on a rotting log to rest and wipe the sweat from his forehead, he gasped, lungs heaving. He couldn’t remember now why a walk in the woods seemed like a good idea.
Still, it was pretty, and the air fresher. A hint of pine lingered within a late summer breeze, masking the stench of decay from woodland detritus; above him, that tender undertone of wind rustled through the foliage. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sound breaking the serene silence.
Before another set of footsteps snapped the twigs and cracked the leaves.
He turned, heard the bang of the gunshot too late, felt the hot slice of the bullet enter his brain and then nothing.
The question was rhetorical. Topi was the one who wandered too far away. She hadn’t kept an eye on the sun. Now she better find shelter fast before the bacteria began to drift in the fertile dark.
Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned about flying to the moon from a deserted shop front. No one knew what powered the music behind the boards, but it had played the same tunes since as long as she had been here. She stopped and looked up at the night sky. A full moon would help a little but it had not yet risen.
Frank was out of touch. His song didn’t age well, she thought. No one would want to fly to a landfill. She scratched her forehead and one of her sensors snagged under a nail and came off.
She studied it in the dim light. A ruby red gem winked in the electric glow, like a drop of clear blood on her fingertip. She flicked it into the shop front. Frank could fly to the moon on that.
The sensor landed on the curb near a flower wrapped in lace and tissue paper. It was tied with a thin silver ribbon that would make a nice gift for her baby sister. Topi had never seen a rose except for illos on old signs. Roses were for the second-tier rich—too poor for Mars evac, but rich enough for the greenhouses. They never came out to risk the pollutions, let alone drop their roses. Yet here was a rose.
I should back off, run away… this is danger.
Topi thought of her baby sister carefully unfolding the fancy paper to find an even fancier ribbon. It would be the loveliest thing any of them had ever owned. Carefully, she moved toward the deserted flower. A sweetness in the air overcame the scent of asphalt and sick. It was like magic. Topi crouched, fingers inches away, undecided.
It was too suspicious to find a rose in the Squallys. Frank’s voice crooned through the shadows. “…in other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.” She could be lucky for once. She could believe in a miracle. Topi picked the rose up and held the silky petals to her skin, inhaling.
“I’m sorry…” The whisper came from a bundle of trash piled up against a broken guardrail. There was a woman sitting there, near buried in the refuse. She was hiding, but Topi could see her fancy gown shimmering white through the pile of greyed, collapsing cardboard.
“You’re rich—how are you here?” Topi clenched her fist around the flower. “This is your rose.” The petals were soft against her lips and she imagined how it must be in the greenhouses. She didn’t want to give it back.
“The filters failed,” said the woman. “We could smell the stink coming in. I panicked.” Her skin was dotted with pearl gems, each a glass drop of milk, defying gravity.
Topi stepped back in shock. “You’re sick! Your gems are white!” She threw the perfect rose at the woman in disgust and wiped her hands on the street. Grime was better than what this woman had. “Go back to your glass city!”
The woman vanished back into the pile of refuse, pulling a sheet of newsprint over her head. “We can’t. The filters failed…. trapped.” She said no more, only closed her eyes. Ttears shimmered silver in the dim light..
Topi turned and ran, rubbing her hands raw against the brick and concrete she passed. She stopped at every puddle and plunged her hands in, wiping her face. Then she realized… She couldn’t go home. Not to the children, not to her mother. Not until she knew if she had caught it.
She examined her wet and bleeding hands under a blinking street lamp. Most of the sensors had been scraped off during her panicked flight, but the few left winked up at her in reassuring hues of sapphire, ruby and jade.
She sighed in relief. She could stay away until dawn. The sun would burn away any bacteria drift she carried. If her gems stayed bright she could return home. She would never do anything so stupid again.
Then, against her knuckle, a pearlescent drop of glass and photoelectrics. It was milky and pale, colorless. Her hand shook. Her life was draining from her, each of her jewels would now wink out until she followed. “Please just be the moon’s reflection…”
She sat where she was, back against the wall and gazed upwards to the sky. There was no moon to be seen. “How am I always unlucky?…” Topi put her hands over her face, pushing her fingers into her eyes to stop the tears. There was no sense mourning the facts.
“I should have known better,” Topi felt calmer. “It was too lovely to be safe.” She inhaled as much air as her lungs could hold, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A delicate wind brushed her skin, carrying remnants of Frank Sinatra with it, still crooning. Topi let her breath out and re-imagined the heady scent of rose. She wanted to carry it with her into the next world while her last breath escaped into this one. The rose may have even been worth this.
Overhead and unseen by the girl dying below, the moon finally rose.
In the centre of my back I feel the pressure of something start to grow, like a hand sending me one way and not another. My skin has started to peel back, and white feathers peek out. I see them in the mirror, feel the stubble of the new ones when I lie down. I try not to toss and turn in case I disturb my feathers.
My wings are growing every day. As spring is approaching, I stare out of the window, willing for birdsong, for greenery, for the sun, to hear the rustle of my fully-grown wings. There is an ache in my bones when I see the sky: a calling, a compass growing on my back, wanting to take me home. I worry my heart fluttering inside my ribcage is too heavy for my wings to carry me, so I try to think about beautiful things like butterflies and birdsong, and sunny parks, and the swell of the sea.
Open windows.
Open doors.
When my wings are fully grown, I’ll wrap them around me to keep me warm; they’ll shield me, so all I will see is white light and purity.
In the nest of my single bed, I dream of my new body making friends with the air, the sky, stroking it with the beat of my wings. I glimpse myself flying between the trees, touching the tips of canopies, my white plumage trailing and pure in the dappled light.
In the half-light of the early morning, though, I see only my thin shoulder blades casting shadows onto the wall. In the mirror, I see that my face has grown fierce and hard. There is no rustle of feathers or beat of wings. Ashes from my lost years and lost loved ones scatter around me; they keep settling. One day, I will be buried under them.
The pencil, a quill, a feather, a weapon. Only my pen writes compassion. Who or what will save me?
On the lower steps, you could just barely see him. A gray smoke. A whirl of ghostly gnats and ashes. Faintly glowing. On the move. Adrift but seeking. Rising up from the cellar’s darkness.
In the light. In a narrow place. Beneath the rococo wall of gold, he became invisible. And he waited. To take a lover. To kiss the first mouth that passed through him. To sup upon a soul and become manifest. To feast upon life so that he might return to flesh, and become a god.
Knock on Wood Marge Simon
I return to the house of my youth, where the newel post still stands at the foot of the stairs. Dear memories of childhood, that staircase with its banister, the game of Knock-on Wood. Down and around we children used to slide. At the landing, knock on wood, then change directions, plunging onward shrieking to the very bottom stair. There, we’d touch wood once more at the newel post, then scramble up to do it all again. The fastest one would take the win, such a lark in bygone days!
All too well, I remember Cousin James, who too often won the game. How he’d crow about his win, until the day I’d had enough, and pushed him downstairs to his death. I tell myself I’d meant no harm; it was just a game gone wrong. I go to leave, but a whuff of chill air stops me in my tracks. Suddenly afraid, I turn to see that newel post knows otherwise, a fiendish leer within its carved design. And, after all these years, there’ll be the devil to pay.
After Dark Nina D’Arcangela
In darkness there is patience, a quiet that waits; a moment pregnant with pure malevolence.
I lay in the dark, sheet tucked to my chin on this sweltering night. The small bulb fixed to the tin wall barely a beacon, let alone a source of comfort. I can hear the crick of the wooden stairs as it stealthily begins the climb. Eyes shuttered tight, breath fetid by fear, my muscles seize — I feel it watching me. Minutes pass as I count slowly in my mind. Finally, I hear it turn, I hear its bones and crepe paper skin as it scrapes the railing and planks. I hear the slight squeal of the hinge as it opens the hatch set into the stairwell. I let out a small sigh and immediately regret my mistake. As I throw the sheet over my head, the thing pounds back up the treads and across the room; bones slamming every surface it passes. It leaps onto the bed, and in a frenzy, begins to pound and slash at my body; the bruising from the last assault not yet healed. Both of us scream. Mine, a high-pitched shriek of terror; its, an unholy wail that splits the night.
Abruptly, the onslaught stops. As I lay panting beneath the torn and bloodied bedclothes, it retreats to the stairs once more. In the near silent room, I hear the latch click as it pulls the door shut behind it.
Locked-In with Dreams Louise Worthington
I eagerly wait for a new day inside my cold cell, even when the sun’s face is ready to give up on me. As usual, the sheets are unhappily twisted around me, hiding imprints from the vigour of my dreams. My secret light pollution. Only I can see them travelling on the train of my life going by, cabin by cabin. On waking, they are water spewing from a hose until it’s cut off mid-stream.
I am thirsty. So very thirsty.
Today I imagine myself escaping from a tower. I have grown my hair, and I lower myself down gently to the ground like precious cargo.
Outside, free from walls, stairs, and doors, I build a new country out of mirrors that heal fragmented reflections, like Picasso. I steal silver foil like magpies to protect my skin.
I skip stones across the pond – one, two, three – and bury seeds in the garden and water them in, then secure trellis for black-eyed Susans and ivy to spread over the ugliest and roughest of brickwork until this house disappears.
The precious things which I have lost shower like cherry blossom, and gusts of wind blow the soft-scented petals indoors, dispersed like breadcrumbs up the stairs, along the dark landing, to confetti beneath my locked bedroom door. If I try hard, I can catch their sweet scent.
Rebirth Lee Andrew Forman
Each footfall echoes with unnatural intensity as I ascend. The newfound light draws me, body and soul—this first dawn to repel the suffocating darkness in which I exist, is irresistible. The edge of all my eyes have witnessed have been no more than shadows and illusions of the psyche. I climb, against all struggle, into the blinding gleam, to flee this domain of suffering and feast on all that is within my grasp. I hunger for more than the rotten scraps the cold metal tube provides. As I reach the barrier I’ve never dared near, I wonder how their flesh will taste—the mother who expelled me from her womb as though I were pestilence, and the father who scorned all I am.
In My Darkness Miriam H. Harrison
The first time I saw her, she was little more than shadow. Walking through our sleeping city, she was a companion in my insomnia. A hope in my darkness. We had many more sleepless nights together, but the sunrises are what I remember best. The daily glow of warmth and colour filling her smile.
That was before the sickness came. Before it drained away her colour. Before all warmth faded to chills and aches. Still we spoke of our sunrises, but she was too weary to see new dawns rise. And without her, I saw no beauty in the light.
The longest, darkest night was when the sickness won. I dreaded the light of a new day, the start of my first day without her. But then, just before dawn, I saw her.
That last time I saw her, she was little more than light. Glowing like a sunrise in my home. Like hope in my darkness.
The Upper Room AF Stewart
He lived in a small room on the top floor of the monastery. A small space beyond narrow winding stairs that smelled of sour, musty age. The upper room they called it, at least the monks that spoke of it at all. Few wished to acknowledge its existence, nor the presence of its occupant.
“A holy man,” they sometimes murmured.
But no one truly knew. No soul saw him, not even the monks that brought him food, slipping it inside his darkened space. After all, who would wish to disturb a hermit lost to silent mediation and prayer?
Strange how the truth can be distorted over time. Equally strange how no one questioned the occasional missing traveller or how dissenting monks sometimes disappeared. Sin calls to sin after all.
For the creature that lived in the upper room was no holy man, nor even a man. Not any longer. Once perhaps, a devout monk seeking enlightenment, seeking the divine. But pride drove him beyond sense and he found only demonic secrets. Ones that devoured his soul. Now he waits in the upper room, a prisoner, consuming the sins of occasional fools that venture too far inside his lair.
But he knows one day someone will make a mistake. They will forget to replenish the wards, or he’ll devour enough sins to break his bonds.
He knows one day he will escape.
Stairwell of the Liquid Souls Harrison Kim
Edema steps up and down, up and down the stairs between the walls, under the light that never turns off. At the top, Edema cannot turn the corner because there is no corner. She can’t go through a door because one doesn’t exist. No turning, because her forehead’s becoming larger, her belly too, and her knees. Her body’s filling with liquid, what sort of liquid, she doesn’t know, all she does know is it is heavy and thick, seeping through from the walls, and it sloshes inside and slows her movements. Within her ears she hears a wailing, a crying in despair,
For God’s sake, get us out of here!
Her heartbeat thumps faster as the wailing rises, a heart that slops and slips as she climbs the stairs ever more slowly, hoping she may escape to freedom if she hits the walls hard enough, in this sick brown coloured stairwell with no night or day. Her forehead droops, her belly sags.
It’s her knees that first drag on the floor, her huge liquid filled knees. Then it’s the belly that drops, and now the forehead, pulling her head down, its creases lie flat on the upper stairs, her feet on the lower ones. Edema’s fluid engorged body fills the entire stairwell, a swampy miasma of skin, liquid soul and bones, she can’t climb any more though her legs continue in spasm. In her head the only thought is “For God’s sake, get me out of here!” how much time does her body lie there… ten days, a month, in stench and stink, seeping into the wood and plaster. Afterwards, the only indication that anything filled the empty space is a slightly brighter light atop the hallway of the liquid souls, an alabaster shimmering in the wall.
The Clearing RJ Meldrum
They parked, grabbed their gear and headed down the trail. Walking for about a mile, they reached a fork. Peter consulted the map. He was unfamiliar with the area, but their destination lay to the east, so he decided to follow the trail heading in that direction. Compared to the path heading west, this one was overgrown with grass and other foliage. It was clearly rarely used. Amanda was worried they were literally leaving the beaten path, but he had the map. Her instinct was correct; he’d chosen the wrong trail. It led to a remote, unpopulated part of the forest.
After an hour they entered a clearing. In the middle sat a ruined cabin. The lumber had decayed into indistinct piles. Only one part remained; a flight of stairs. In perfect condition, they climbed to a floor which no longer existed.
The sight was so incongruous, Amanda just had to take a closer look. She touched the bannister, but quickly withdrew her hand. It had vibrated. Peter placed his hand on the wood too, but felt nothing.
She started to climb the stairs. Her eyes were glazed and distant, as if she was seeing something Peter couldn’t. She reached the top and extended her hand. Her fingers mimicked opening a door. She stepped forward. Peter shouted she was about to fall. Instead, she simply disappeared. He ran up the stairs, but there was nothing. He had to get help. He headed back down the trail.
In the clearing, the ruined cabin sat quietly. The fresh varnish on the stairs reflected the evening sun, sending shafts of light to sparkle amongst the green leaves of nearby trees. There was a sense of calm and tranquility. The offering, although unexpected, had been acceptable.
The Servants’ Staircase Elaine Pascale
“I keep dreaming about the stairs.”
“The servants’ stairs?” Clay asked even though he knew the answer. His wife had complained of being haunted by the narrow staircase ever since they had been forced to relocate. She said there was bad energy trapped in the stairwell. He had caught her performing a ritual at the foot of the stairs.
“I wish you wouldn’t call it that…” Julia sighed.
“It’s historically accurate. Besides, neither of our families could have afforded servants. We have a clean slate.”
“Then explain the dreams.”
He tapped his forehead. “Your witchy brain, my dear.”
She frowned. “Can you try opening that weird cubby again? Maybe if I see the inside, the dreams will stop.”
“I’ve tried. It’s sealed shut.”
“Break the seal,” she pleaded.
Knowing that the landlord would not be thrilled with the act of vandalism but wanting his wife’s superstitions to stop, Clay tried the small door again, only to find that it opened easily.
“See, nothing—” Clay stopped when he spotted what looked like a sapphire ring peeking out of the dirt. “How did your ring get in there?”
Julia shrugged. “I bartered.”
Clay was confused. “Bartered? For what?”
As Julia swung the hammer at his forehead, Clay saw that the ring was garnishing a gnarled hand.
“Your life insurance policy.”
The hand grabbed Clay’s shirt just as the pain set in.
The last thing he heard was Julia say proudly, “Thank god for my witchy brain.”
The scissors on the dressing table catch Libby’s eye, which means it is day time.
She takes another two pins, thrusts them into the doll’s eyes then puts the doll’s hand in hers. Hand in hand.
‘Come on, Mummy, let’s go to the corner shop.’
Libby makes the doll walk across her single bed. Doll has a face full of shiny pins. Next door in the box bedroom, Mummy is working at her sewing table. The hum of the Singer machine is continuous, from morning through to night time. Libby knows not to disturb Mummy when she’s busy working, but she is hungry.
She looks at the little pin-cushion doll Mummy made her as if she might tell her what to do. ‘Are you hungry, too?’
The humming stops. Libby puts her ear to the bedroom door expecting to hear familiar movements, like the rustle of fabrics, the snip of scissors, the cheerful rattle of the beads and buttons in those special see-through pots, even a scraping of the chair on the wooden floor – something. Mummy likes singing snatches of a song when her mood is happy. Fancy fabric like taffeta and silk for Mummy’s special customers make a rich sound, but that doesn’t happen very often.
The only sound is Libby’s heartbeat and blood rushing through her ears. Loud rumbling in her tummy. She wants to knock.
Libby fingers the poppy-red ribbons in her pigtails. One ribbon is frayed at the end where she has chewed it, but it is still her favourite because of its colour. When it’s time to go to school, she’ll wear them in her hair and everyone will notice her. Only Libby isn’t sure when school starts, or what day it is. She chews the inside of her cheek until a fly lands on the end of her nose.
Fly is tickly, unlike pin-cushion doll who is stuffed with cotton wool and stitched at the seams, made of gingham cotton in pink and red. Left-overs from something or other Mummy made for someone else. Always left-overs and scraps, hand-me-downs. Cold food from the night before, reheated beans, clothes with someone else’s name written on the label.
Buzzing fly is like the hum of the Singer.
Libby knocks on the door, desperate for food and reassurance. ‘Mummy?’
Spools of cotton in navy and black roll behind the door on the wooden floorboards, releasing a new and unexpected sound into the little room. As Libby edges inside the box room, she spots a red bead that looks like a splash of blood.
It’s a relief to see Mummy at her sewing table, her head resting on the desk for a nap after hours of her machine humming away. No wonder she is exhausted.
The Singer is humming even though Mummy’s hands and legs aren’t moving. Libby edges closer to the table, sensing something – an odour. She sees the peculiar angle of Mummy’s head.
‘I’m hungr—’
When Libby screams a swarm of flies, angry at being disturbed from the stinking corpse, enter her mouth. The humming doesn’t stop; it gets louder.
More flies crawl over the bleeding head with its pin-cushion face, eye sockets of pins, lips of pins, and in between, a flush of gingham pink and red.
The mating time was brief this year. Our women sang notes like floss on the wild-wind plains. A human came who forced his seed on sweet Ala of the Yellow Eyes. We went on, saying not a word, bent to harvesting our Caddo root.
Afterward, Ala wasn’t the same. She cut her marvelous hair which had been dark and long, grown down below her knees. She wandered off to the Darklands, heavy with child and none to celebrate. We mourn her fate. If she survives, she’ll not return. She’ll raise his spawn alone. She was the envy of us all. When the child is born, she’ll burn his father’s image in the sands of our dead oceans. The human sits on our sacred stones. He preens his beard and leers at females, with no more thoughts to waste on Ala; he never even knew her name.
Come burrow season, we prepare, sharpen our talons on the Caddo root. When the freezing gales begin, the human will demand sanctuary, as his kind always does. We bring him the rich sap of our Caddo root, watch his flabby face turn pale as the winter moons. We will confirm his welcome with the strewing of his bones.
Petrified Wishes A.F. Stewart
“Round and round the tree, who will it be? One wish for you, none for me.” But don’t get too close. “Forever you may find, is far too unkind.” Forever… don’t think about that. “In a circle we dance, now only two. One wish for me, none for you.”
“Footsteps, footsteps, roundabout. Sure with the pacing, never in doubt.” One little slip… Nancy slipped. Oh god, poor Nancy. And Deidre. Can’t think, have to keep moving. Finish the song. It’s the only way. “Complete the circle, one by one. Pay the piper, single survivor. The wish is yours when the song is done.”
Why did we come here? Wishes? Fortunes? Happiness? It was only supposed to be silly fun. Grandma warned me. I didn’t believe her. Foolish tales. I never thought it could be… Not this… Cara, did she? Yes, Cara stumbled. I’m going to survive!
Just to be certain, I helped my friend to her death with a push, watching the tree consume her flesh, until nothing remained but a petrified corpse. Then on trembling legs, I made my wish and whispered the last line of the song.
“To the one left standing, a wish granted you see. The others have fallen, now part of the tree…”
Passing Time Lee Andrew Forman
Time uncounted passed since the radiance of our love ended. We adored that barken pillar and its canopy, the shade it provided from the fury of a summer sun. Blankets lain and baskets aplenty carried by lovers’ hands, words of angels and moments of bliss born into existence—each an expanding universe of our contentment.
But these years, so soft and kind, turned bitter and dealt spite upon our miracle. An affliction came upon her, and through its vile nature, her lips ceased to smile. All they had to offer was a cold, passionless touch. I wept over her body until my nostrils could no longer stand the scent. Only then did I begin the work of finding and putting to use a shovel.
What more fitting place than at the foot of our favorite tree to bury her emptied vessel. I sat with her daily. I spoke the words I would have, had she lived. I picnicked with fine cheese and her favorite wine. With each passing year, the roots grew; they twisted as slowly as grief.
With each new moon, the hair upon my scalp grayed, and I smiled knowing we’d soon be together again.
Survival Charles Gramlich
Only dirt, a patch of grass, and one tree survive. Besides black and white, the only colors left here are gray and green and shades of brown. Everyone worried about nuclear war, or the coming of AI. They worried about pollution and overpopulation, about new plagues and old, about the revenge of plants, or insects, or birds, or the frogs, or mutated beasts. They worried about climate change and super storms. No one worried about the thing that actually killed us, that left earth a corpse world. It happened when useless, meaningless words began to proliferate from the mouths of idiots. When bloviating fools talked and talked and talked and talked. And words lost their meaning and strangled all thought, and then all life. Until only this one patch of grass and a tree are left. For now.
Transformation RJ Meldrum
She went to the forest. It was the place she always visited when her heart was broken. Another failed romance; perhaps her standards were too high, perhaps the boys she chose were just assholes. She drifted along trails, leaves speckled with sunlight. She was heading to the tree. It was her place of peace, her thinking tree. She often visited it, when she was happy but also when she was sad. There was just something about the oak, as it towered a hundred feet into the air above her. She sat and rubbed the bark.
“Just you and me again. I wish I had a heart like yours. A wooden heart can’t be broken.”
She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the warm, scented summer breeze. She woke to coolness. The sun had shifted. Her hand was stiff and dead. Must have slept on it funny and cut off the circulation. She tried to lift it but found herself unable to. Looking down she screamed. Her hand had all but disappeared into the wood of the tree. The skin on her forearm was no longer skin, instead it was scaly and brown. Like bark. She realized with increasing horror she was unable to escape. A whispering came from above her. The wind in the leaves serenaded her.
Sleep, it will soon be over. Soon be better. You will have a wooden heart and that can never be broken.
She understood. Her tree was trying to protect her. She laid back, her head against the wood. She listened as the tree absorbed her, turning her into wood. Her consciousness joined the others. After her transformation, she simply resembled a long, knobby, albeit strangely shaped root.
Escape Miriam H. Harrison
I could not escape. Not when you lured me with gentle words, not when you wooed me with practiced charm, not even when I first saw your anger flash red. No, your wrongs were terrible, but you always knew how to make them right. You knew how to be sorry—oh so sorry. You knew how to bare your vulnerable heart, cry your misunderstood tears, until I would forget who had hurt whom.
I remember now. I remember now that it’s too late.
I could not escape you then. Now, you will not escape me. I will be all you see. Look to the clouds, and I will be there, bleeding red sunsets. Look to the stones and you will see my broken bones. Look to the trees and I will look back, reaching to you with roots and branches, reminding you of what you will never escape.
Cradle Nina D’Arcangela
Barely able to see, I clamored on, climbing as quickly as I could. Passing the first bisected limb, I struggled further—not to the second, but the third. It was rumored the higher the elevation, the greater the enlightenment that would be achieved. I lay down and began to pant, my body slick and exhausted. The cradle of the tree welcoming. I chose this as my birthing place.
I began the arduous task at hand. Gaining my feet once more, I leaned my back against the main trunk and began to slough the mucus like cocoon that encased my body and hers. More than once, I had to readjust my stance for stability. With most of the shedding complete, I reached down to embrace the babe now laying at my naked feet. She was beautiful – as raw skinned as I, but still the most exquisite thing I had ever seen. A slight error in judgment as I leaned forward to bite through the umbilical, and I was airborne, until I wasn’t. Lying on the ground, I watched as my brothers made the same climb I had, but for a different purpose.
Broken and shattered, I could do nothing but watch as my siblings cleaned the ancient tree of the ichor I’d left behind. In their haste, they didn’t notice the small bundle among the discarded tissue. My broken body unable to speak, I lie at the base of the tree and watched as she plummeted to the ground, landing in the cook of my arm.
Nameless Louise Worthington
Only when she is dead will it stop coming for her. Only under the earth, when air is no longer a tormenter, will she be free to rest her weary head. There is no place that she can hide. No place where she can be who and what she is – was – is without it eating neurons. No matter the distance. No matter the country. She has no memory: no family or home. No roots. Earthbound: trapped and homeless inside a shrinking head.
‘There is no one to say goodbye to, is there?…’
She thinks it’s the ancient tree moaning in the autumn breeze and to soothe it, she places a frail hand on the bark grown thick and strong with every passing year. Her skin is as thin as paper.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
What fantasy can a splintering woman have, except to lie beside the stolid tree as though nature is her friend, too?
The Squid Man Harrison Kim
I float above old root veins holding a petrified body, legs decayed to squid like bits. The roots suck onto the body from beneath the ground. The condemned youth’s blood flowed thick, sustaining this mighty tree, with its bark foot inching forward, finding ways to grasp. Months ago, in the reflection of the water, and above it, from this mighty fir, this young man was hung from a rope, then his body cut down, left in these woods to rot and decay, as is the custom here. Around his corpse, leaves fall like the years, and the summer grass turns a weak green colour, with the autumn rains. The young man became a squid creature fallen, the tree feasting on his blood, a tree with a foot like an elephant’s, thick and strong. The young man, decapitated, the fall from the rope so powerful his head released and fell yards away, where it became a petrified ball.
I have this dream night after night, viewing the young man’s arm pulled off and his head and body decaying beneath the tree, and every night I want to cut his squid arm free, but it’s too late, it is fused to the roots. Headless corpse here, dry and drained, the living tree under which the young man was condemned possessing the body with its roots. A tree mighty and powerful, thrusting skyward strong where this man was hung for his crimes. My dreaming soul floats above the desiccated corpse in a forever dream. Beneath the earth, where I cannot see, the condemned man’s blood now absorbed by the fir roots. The nutrients still circulate here, bringing strength and life.
Waiting to Fall Elaine Pascale
You never loved me more than when you were dying,
nestled in your noose, waiting to fall.
I watched. I watched you die.
At your last breath, I fainted into the cold earth beneath your feet.
It was good there. It was good in the cold and dark.
I returned every night after your body had been taken down;
after your body had been disposed of
without ceremony
without any indication that you had ever lived.
The tree became a memorial.
I offered myself to it.
Offered my love to it, to you.
And you took it,
so that each night I grew weaker.
Your restless spirit sought sustenance from mine.
Your mouth, your lips, your teeth, they took
as I lay beneath the tree craving more darkness as you craved more light.
Before my eyes failed, I saw you shimmering,
draining me so that you could become more substantial.
Pen of the Damned 