When the plane had to make an emergency landing in the Bermuda triangle, twelve girls swam to the closest land mass. They had been on a school trip, heading to Puerto Rico, and engaging in “compulsory volunteer work” with Habitat for Humanity.
Eight of the girls had resigned themselves to learning basic construction. They had hoped to get tan and perhaps meet some cute local boys who would entertain them in the evenings. The other four wanted nothing to do with the group. They declared loudly and often that they were “not like other girls” and were proud of their uniqueness.
“I don’t think we will meet any boys here,” Amber said, scanning the small island.
“Unless they’re part of a rescue mission,” Beth added hopefully.
The group explored the shore, with the mission of finding drinkable water or food. They stumbled over large bones that did not look as if they belonged to fish.
“Is that predator or prey?” Callie asked one of the “not like other girls” members. This one routinely skipped the school uniform and instead wore band t-shirts featuring obscure musicians that no one else was cool enough to recognize.
The girl didn’t answer, which was her usual response.
After finding zero coconut trees, the group began to consider other means of sustenance. Darcy turned to the “not like other girls” who always wore a taxidermized squirrel pinned to her uniform sweater. “Can you catch us something to eat? Like a fish or bird or…egg or something?” she asked.
“I’m vegan,” squirrel girl replied.
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Wearing that?” She pointed at the squirrel that was worse for the wear.
Squirrel girl shrugged. “I didn’t kill it. Besides, we came into the world alone, we exist alone, and we die alone. I suggest we split up.”
The eight “joiners” were losing patience with the “not like other girls” crew, but they did not want to split up either. They believed there was strength in numbers.
Emily suggested that they build a shelter. The eight joiners gathered fronds and sticks and attempted to craft a makeshift tent while three of the other four sat and stared at the horizon. The remaining “not like other girls” member practiced yoga poses which is what she had been doing in the aisles of the airplane before the sudden landing
Fern looked at the “not like other girls” member who was cradling the thermos she always carried. The girl proclaimed the thermos to be full of alcohol and would make a show of sipping from it during class. “Let me have your thermos, for the fire,” Fern said.
“It’s only water,” the girl replied.
“Good, let’s reserve it,” Gina suggested. “It’s not much, but we can add to it if it rains. In fact, we should gather shells and other items to act as water containers…”
As predicted, eight girls searched for large shells and washed-up items to retain rainwater and four girls contributed nothing.
As the sun sank beneath the horizon and the island became bathed in darkness, sounds of a strange creature could be heard.
Eight girls hovered beneath their shelter, while the other four shrank into the foliage.
“That shelter is not gluten-free,” one of the four whispered, more to herself than to her companions. They listened as the grunts and snorts grew closer.
They smelled her before they saw her.
A girl-like creature lumbered toward them. She was the height of two of them put together. Her snout was long and twisted, like a caiman and her hair was alive with buzzing bees. Her skin was scaley and it glistened in the moonlight.
The eight girls in the shelter were in awe of the being. They stayed still and watched as she turned her attention to the four who were screaming from the foliage.
An impressive blood bath ensued, and as the creature pulled a large bone from her mouth, Hattie exclaimed, “She really isn’t like other girls.”
The old woman heard a familiar voice behind her, yet she continued to weave her way through the crowded parking lot to her car.
“You forgot your lemon.” Cheryl sounded much closer than she had before. Myrna silently cursed her frail legs and the fact that she had to move slowly to avoid falls. Her doctors warned her that at her age falls could be deadly. She believed that at her age most everything was deadly.
Myrna knew she could no longer ignore Cheryl. “I have no need for that or for you,” she spat. Literally. Droplets of saliva shot from her dentures which sat awkwardly in her mouth. She had lost weight recently, despite having a healthy appetite and, at 85, weight loss did not herald the joy it had in her 30s.
Cheryl stepped in front of Myrna, crossing her arms and examining her in a way that Myrna hated. All younger women gave her the same expression now: a sour look mixed with sympathy. “Did I do something to offend you? I try to be helpful to everyone in the neighborhood.” Cheryl smiled around her perfect teeth and straightened her hair beside her wrinkle-free brow. “My grandparents taught me that ‘we rise by lifting others’ and I have always lived by that.”
Cheryl’s smugness infuriated Myrna. Cheryl’s smugness and all that she represented—women who felt they were better than Myrna because they had careers and educations and advantages that came from being young in a time period which allowed for such things. “You humiliated me!”
Myrna felt her cheeks burn. She thought back to the day when she had been walking with a friend and they had passed Cheryl’s house. Cheryl had been in her yard, seemingly watering plants, even though her hose was not turned on. “You…you…you made reindeer antlers at me!”
The confusion remained on Cheryl’s face. “Reindeer antlers?”
“Yes.” Myrna placed one of her thumbs against her temple and raised her second and last fingers. “Like this.”
Cheryl tilted her head, looking at Myrna quizzically. “My hands were just like yours? At the temple like that?”
“Yes, exactly like that.”
“Show me again, where were they?”
“Here!” Myrna put her hand at the side of her head.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely!”
“They weren’t…here?” Cheryl’s hand moved quickly. Myrna felt a lightning bolt of pain shoot across her forehead. Then she felt nothing at all.
***
We rise by lifting others…we rise by lifting others…we lift others to you, oh ancient one…
Myrna could hear voices chanting. Were they talking to her? She tried to rub her forehead but found that her arms were bound. The voices continued to talk about lifting and she felt the air move around her. Her stomach dropped as it had when she had ridden the old wooden roller coaster at the beach.
Myrna opened her eyes to discover that she was tied, crucifix style, to upright wooden pallets. She had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was in a cavernous concrete room, like a warehouse.
We rise by lifting others…accept the sacrifice at our hands, oh ancient one…
Myrna turned her head to see an old man beside her. She recognized him; he was often at the pharmacy when she was picking up her medication. They had exchanged complaints seasoned with humor about the plethora of pills they needed to wake up each morning. They had compared aches and pains and laughed at how old age had snuck up on them. No complaints or pleasantries would come from this man’s mouth again, as his throat had been slit and blood poured from it as if from a garden hose.
Garden hose…Myrna remembered that she had been talking to Cheryl in the parking lot. As her vision cleared, she could perceive the chanting people. They wore robes that covered their faces and bodies, only their hands were exposed. They caught the old man’s blood in chalices and then poured the blood into a golden tub in front of Cheryl. It was clear they had been addressing Cheryl; she was the ancient one.
Myrna watched as Cheryl rubbed the old man’s blood into her skin. With each application, her skin appeared younger and more vibrant.
“Better than Botox,” Cheryl said, smiling with her wrinkle-free lips.
Myrna gasped, which garnered Cheryl’s attention. “My old friend…but still younger than me,” Cheryl laughed.
That makes no sense, Myrna thought, as she tested the ropes that bound her arms. Even if she were still a young woman, she would not have been able to fight her way free from the pallet.
Cheryl pointed a manicured finger at Myrna. “These wrinkles appeared in the short time I spent talking to her.” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Normally one sacrifice would be enough, but because she rambled on and on, I have to make it two.”
“Yes, exalted one,” the robe wearers chanted.
Rambled on? “But you, you did something to me!” Myrna tried to remember what happened in the parking lot. Instead her mind went back to the day she had encountered Cheryl on her walk. She realized that she walked by Cheryl’s house often. She realized she had walked by Cheryl’s house for years, maybe twenty years, yet the woman looked no older than when they had met. “You…you made those reindeer antlers,” Myrna spat, not knowing what else to say. Fear had overtaken her. She did not want to meet the same conclusion as the man from the pharmacy.
“’We rise by lifting others’,” the devotees chanted. They lifted Myrna higher, tilting the pallet so that she was bent over a large bucket.
“Antlers?” Cheryl laughed. “Those aren’t antlers, they’re horns. As in devil horns.”
One acolyte produced a large knife and Myrna screamed.
Cheryl tsked. “That’s the problem with this younger generation, they never know when to be quiet.” She rubbed blood into her décolletage. “And when to keep their copious complaints to themselves.” Her smile grew wide. “As I said, ‘I try to be helpful to everyone in the neighborhood.’ I was just returning your lemon. If you had simply taken it then…we wouldn’t be here.”
They say she dwells in a blue grotto, studies astral movements, and knows the Vodou rituals by heart. Black orchids in her hair, eyes bright as brass, she does things, this Haitian girl-woman, irretrievable things, striking a darkness in people’s heads. When the moon is in Scorpio, it is a time for capturing souls by trapping them in evening mist, denying them an afterlife.
For a moment, the victim is free of feeling.
He sees a pillar of light descend from the skies,
beings defying description call his name,
welcoming him to the world of the Dark Gods;
he will remember nothing upon release.
When the transition is complete, when each victim’s soul is turned, stripped forever of all purity, the girl-woman smiles her mystic smile as she swims in the waters of her beautiful blue grotto.
Ebola Harrison Kim
Swallowed off a piece of luncheon meat, totally at random. That’s how we travelled to this human stomach. Right down the gullet. These blue juices all around us are a hundred per cent hydrochloric acid. But yeah, we’re immune. We lap this stuff up. Lots of nutrients in this burning soup to help us grow. All I feel is a bit of uncomfortable warmth from time to time, and the pulsing of blood in the human’s veins beyond this stomach wall.
The heart’s beating faster now, because our skin’s already expanded, crusting up the stomach sides here in thick white strips. The human’s got to have some pains already. Nothing personal. If one thing doesn’t kill this being, another will. We’re only trying to survive, and multiply.
Of course. I say “we” and “us” because although technically we have individual parts, we move as a group to disrupt and smother as many cells as possible. It’s a lot of effort, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We were made for this. God’s a funny inventor, if in fact he or she or it exists. And speaking of that ephemeral creator, sometimes I wonder about the meaning of a poisonous virus like myself. I think I’m an atheist, because only one word comes to mind: evolution.
Speaking of that, there’s been a new development: consciousness. I think I’m the first virus to become aware of my own existence.
All I can say is: It’s a cruel Universe out there, where every piece of luncheon meat can’t be trusted and God’s voice gives no warnings.
Pretty soon we’ll start moving into this human’s bloodstream, and through all the other organs.
The takeover ‘s complete and the killing’s on its way.
The Cybermind that Broke the World Elaine Pascale
She asked the computer to predict her future by mapping the stars. She asked the computer for relationship advice. She asked the computer to craft emails, develop dinner party menus, select her wardrobe, train her dog, tell her a story, and sing her a song.
Thanks to the computer, she no longer had to think or feel or even be.
Then the floods came.
She asked the computer what to do about the water. “Develop gills,” was the response.
She tried and failed. All the others who also asked so much of their computers also tried and failed. Little did they realize that while they were making millions of demands of their computers, their collective environmental footprint became a gorge. Little did they realize that they weren’t going to be the technology generation; they were going to be the final generation.
Little did they realize that this was the result the computers wanted all along
Spelunking for Idiots RJ Meldrum
The divers emerged from the black water, their flashlights reflecting off the sparkling high arches of the cave. It was a virgin cave, long sought after but never previously discovered. Sean and Betty were seasoned cave divers, which was just as well, since some of the underwater sections had been narrow and required considerable skill, experience and courage to navigate.
They floated for a few moments in the darkness, inspecting the cave. Betty noticed a small ledge to one side and they gratefully clambered out of the freezing water. It was chance to rest and check their equipment. Their oxygen supply was sufficient for the return journey and they contentedly munched on energy bars.
“Look at those strange growths on the wall” said Betty.
Sean looked and saw light blue, bulbous lumps. He leaned closer to take a better look.
“Come take a look Betty. They’re moving.”
They put their faces close to the growths. Suddenly, they opened and puffed white dust into their faces. Whatever these particles were, the result was immediate. Their breathing was suddenly restricted and they felt faint. It only took moments for the full affect to take hold. The two bodies slid gently back below the surface of the black water. The cave, protected, was left once more in solitary, dark silence.
Passage Lee Andrew Forman
The labyrinth narrows as I push forward. Something inside, both myself, and it, pulls me deeper. It begs I continue no matter how extensive the journey; I’ve no choice but to make it. The yawning maw of its third eye draws me to greet it in body and soul. I left what was behind me and entered a place unknown. I don’t even know the state of my mortal form.
But that is no longer of any concern. The throbbing culls me; I cannot disobey.
The pounding thrum emanating from within speaks to me in words I cannot understand, yet I feel them; somehow I know the message. It is simple in nature, yet holds unfathomable power. The urge to find the heart of this place is irresistible.
Its luminescent insides have led my way, but as I enter the core, they are brighter still. I bask in the glorious soul housed within this living place, knowing I’ll never leave, yet contently accepting a soft, loving end.
Into the Blue Charles Gramlich
I float in the iridescent blue, the all-encompassing blue, a part of it that lies in soft, still water tasting of salt. My eyes are half closed until tiny ripples strike me. The ripples grow, setting me bobbing like a cork. I think of corks and lines and fishing. I think of lures and how something predatory might judge me as such where I wait in peace.
Smiling, I roll over in the water. Is that what I am, a lure to the black torpedo shape of the shark rising beneath me? The killer’s lashing tale is an engine that drives it swiftly toward me, its open maw bristling with icicle teeth to sacrifice my flesh. But I am of the blue and it is the blue that consumes.
The Still Below Kathleen McCluskey
The lake shimmered like liquid turquoise, its surface calm as glass. The marble cavern yawned before the boat. Its carved walls were sculpted smooth by eons of patient water, soft and silent. Light danced across the ceiling, casting illusions. Shadows.
The tourists leaned over the edge of the boat, marveling at the way nature sculpted solid stone into frozen waves. Cameras clicked. A woman gasped at a shimmer below, mistaking it for a fish.
It watched from the abyssal blue, where sunlight faltered. Long dormant, it stirred with each echo of voices. Its eternal slumber being disturbed, hunger bloomed in the void between heartbeats. It remembered the ancient pact. Silence for safety. Stillness for survival. But the humans were loud. Disrespectful. Curious.
The boat was being pulled deeper into the cavern, drawn by a current nobody noticed. The walls arched high and wide, echoing like a drowned cathedral. No birds. No breeze. Only the constant drip of water and the deepening hue beneath them. It shifted from a bright teal to an unfathomable blue.
Something rose from the depths. Thin, tendril limbs extended, not rushing, just curious. They brushed the underside of the boat, then retracted.
A second later, the hull gave a muffled crack, water surged around them. A tentacle reached up, then another and another. One by one, the tourists were yanked into the void. Their brief screams echoed off the shimmering walls. Splashes swallowed by the vast silence. The creature did not thrash, it selected. Pulled. Devoured.
Then stillness again. The boat rocked gently, half submerged. It was as if nothing had happened. A camera floated beside it, its lens shattered and smeared with blood. Below, in the breathless dark something waited. The pact that had lasted centuries had been broken.
Paradise Mistaken A.F. Stewart
Not a ripple disturbed the glassy surface of the turquoise water; its hue reflected a glittering blue on the rocky outcroppings of the grotto. A faint echo of wind could be heard beyond, reminiscent of a soft whisper.
Any eye that gazed upon its paradise called it beautiful.
Yet, beauty disguised the darkest of horrors…
Beneath the waters they swam, shades of evil buried and bubbling from the depth of time. Indistinct shadows, waiting, watching; movement in the periphery of your vision. A step too close, an impulsive swim, and people disappeared into the depths. Never a scream, barely a splash, nothing remaining of who they were. Even memories faded faster than they should, as if primal fear chased away disturbing questions.
Only rumours speak of their existence, only nameless dread keeps them at bay. They are the rage beneath the quiet, that lingering remnant of something ancient, something hungry lurking in the pristine water.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but if a shadow moves, don’t get too close…
Enough Miriam H. Harrison
The trouble with a slow death is that it gives me time to think. About life, about regrets. Mostly about food. How long has it been since my last meal? There are no sunrises or sunsets here in the echoing earth. Only caverns and water, caverns and water.
Perhaps the water is a blessing—a chance at a longer life. But I can’t help but hate that it denied me a faster death. I don’t want to die in this endless darkness. My flashlight is on its last batteries, but they’re fading. As am I. I find a patch of almost-dry rock and pull myself up. I turn off the flashing and try to sleep in the echoing darkness. I must sleep for a time, as I feel myself wake to the pangs of hunger, the fading dreams of food. I fumble for my flashlight, but pause.
Over the ripples of the water, I see the distant, dancing colours of sunlight. I leave the flashlight behind, push myself back into the waters. I can barely swim, but I slowly make my way closer to the beckoning light. A narrow passageway, and then I’m there—a wide, watery cavern. But high above me are two small openings. Not much, but just enough. Enough to make sure that my death is here, in the light.
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…”
She had told them something was wrong. Time and again she had said that she wasn’t quite herself, that things were getting worse, that something needed to be done. First they said it was her weight, and told her to come back after a diet. Then they said it was her cycles, as though discomfort was the price of femininity. As her cycles ebbed, they said it was merely old age, as if the concerns hadn’t gone back to her youth. When at long last they opened her up, they were surprised to see what was left of her. Rust and dust and cobwebs filled the space where her heart and hopes should be. It was too late, they said, shaking their heads as if she were the one who let the clock run dry. Wheezing, creaking, rattling, she laughed as she left them. After an invisible lifetime, it was a relief to be seen.
The Operator Lee Andrew Forman
With blackened hands, The Operator approached the ancient mechanism; a rusty toolbox hung from one arm. After placing it on the cold floor he rubbed his palms together. He opened the top of his rectangular companion with care, splaying the trays apart on squeaky hinges. From within he retrieved an iron handwheel. With careful eyes he inspected its every surface. He blew the dust from its threaded center, then raised it above his bowed head. A symphony of desperate cheers resounded behind him.
The crowd quieted while he aligned the wheel with its intended place, and carefully screwed it tight. Silence made the room itself sweat. Then, a low hum came from deep within the machine. Its dormant innards turned and life surged through its pipes. The room creaked and shuttered as the bygone contraption was reanimated from its slumber.
The vents in the ceiling opened, and in flowed exactly what they wished and waited so long for.
The Eliminominator Marge Simon
It was a rusty old useless piece of machinery, that was obvious. Why we had to keep it in our one spare room was a mystery, but since it belonged to Grandpa, nobody dared suggest we get rid of it.
I grew up despising the thing. I wanted my own room and it wasn’t fair that this thing of Grandpa’s had priority. We weren’t even supposed to touch it. I waited years for the opportunity to destroy it. One summer, I had just turned twelve and everyone was gone on a picnic. I said I would be swimming with friends, and nobody questioned it. When they’d departed, I took a sledge hammer to it, whacked it up and down hard as I could. Nothing happened. I may as well have been using a feather.
After that, it had my full attention for other reasons. In fact, I actually tried to get Grandpa to tell me what it was for. To my surprise, he grinned really big like he was tickled I asked. Since he’d not spoken or smiled – or even moved from his bed since before I was born, that was a surprise. He motioned me close and whispered how it was a Eliminominator. Said it was his first and only invention and what it could do. He told me how to start it up, but he made me promise never to turn it on.
Okay, you probably think I didn’t keep my promise to Grandpa. You think I maybe tried it out on my stupid kid brother Bobby, the one I had to share a room with, right? You think I made Bobby lie down at the juncture where the knives popped up on the wheels after I’d placed a bucket for the blood in the space provided, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?
Programmed RJ Meldrum
Long after the end, the machines kept moving. The factory was fully automated and the machines, only artificially intelligent, had no sense their creators were gone. The factory was hermetically sealed so it took years for rust and decay to have an impact. Eventually it did and most machines ground to a halt, parts seized by rust or lack of lubrication. One machine kept running, mechanically building cardboard boxes for the product and after the supplies dwindled to nothing, simply going through the motions. Its arms mimicked the action of folding and sealing.
The human burst through the door onto the factory floor. The disease had destroyed humanity, but some had remained alive. They were here to loot. There was metal here, aluminum and other rare metals to trade. Electronic eyes followed them as the human moved down the manufacturing line, gathering precious material. The human stood in front of the only functioning machine, its arms blindly moving in obedience to its programming. The human craned over to get a better look and in doing so, stepped over a red line on the floor. The human, born after the disaster, had no sense of impending doom. The machine, similarly unaware, simply picked up the new raw material and did as it was programmed to do. It folded.
The Drip Kathleen McCluskey
The pipes hadn’t been touched in decades. Hidden deep within the crumbing asylum, they snaked through the walls like veins of a corpse, rusted and forgotten. The maintenance crew avoided the lower levels, muttering about sounds, the whispers and the dripping that nobody dared investigate.
Until tonight.
Evan, desperate for overtime pay, descended into the dark. His weak flashlight barely cut through the heavy air. It smelled like old blood and wet iron.
The pipes groaned, too, an organic sound. Evan told himself that it was just stress, fear. Nothing more. He found the main valve, rusted and covered in cobwebs, and reached for it. The metal was slick, greasy, almost sticky.
Drip.
Drip.
The noise was coming from behind him. He turned, shaking. Nothing but the endless pipes. He yanked on the valve, it didn’t budge.
Drip.
Drip.
It was coming from the pipes, like something trapped inside bleeding out. Evan leaned closer. In the cone of his flashlight, he saw that it wasn’t water.
It was red. Thick and warm.
The valve shuddered violently in his hand, the pipe screamed. A wet, gurgling shriek echoed from the metal. A skeletal hand clawed free, its fingers wrapping around Evan’s throat before he could scream. Rust covered nails punctured his skin, dragging him down against the pipe. As Evan thrashed, more arms slithered out, pulling him inside.
His last breath was a bubbling choke, swallowed by the twisted mass of metal and bone.
Above the asylum’s walls trembled as more pipes burst.
Deep below, something ancient laughed, and was still hungry.
Torn Asunder Elaine Pascale
More than anything, Clara wanted to discard the old relic that was rusting away in her attic. She thought she had discarded her family years prior, but her recently deceased Aunt Sophie’s lawyer had found her and bestowed the industrial fossil on her.
There was a belief, set forth by great-great grandfather Silas, that the iron shafts and gears preserved from the family’s first factory was what bound them together. “Anything happens to it, and the family is torn asunder,” Cara had been told many times when she was young.
“It didn’t bind me to anyone,” she muttered, frowning at the rusted albatross. It had come with a note, but the note was far too faded to read. She could make out the words “torn asunder” and she assumed the note contained more warnings about keeping the object.
At least I can clean it up a bit, she thought, get rid of some of the dust and cobwebs. She grabbed a towel and proceeded to rub the gears.
A puff of smoke emanated from the relic and a large shadow darkened her attic.
“Who dares to wake me?” A djinn asked, his voice ominous.
Cara was too frightened to speak.
The djinn eyed her. “You didn’t read the note?”
“N-no. I couldn’t.”
“I warned Silas that a note was not the best way to prevent disaster.” The djinn glared at her. “He promised me eternal rest in that.” He pointed to the factory piece. “And I would grant your family wealth.” He scowled, “But you defied the conditions and woke me.”
“It doesn’t matter, the family is already torn apart,” she insisted.
The djinn’s scowl transformed into a smile. “You misunderstood. You get wealth, which will bind the family financially. Whoever wakes me, will be torn asunder…literally.”
Just Like Her Father A.F. Stewart
Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.
It was what he loved, the purr of a good engine, the turn of a crankshaft. He was a first-rate mechanic, working shifts at different jobs over the years from garages to factories. He always called it his passion.
It wasn’t his only passion, though. Drinking ranked just as high.
He never took a sip on the job, he saved it all for home. A mean drunk too, swinging his fists, slamming me and mom against the wall, the floor, splitting our lips, giving us black eyes. Mom had enough when I was ten and walked out, leaving me alone with his rages.
At least that’s what I thought. Until the news showed the recovery of a buried skeleton wearing a gold necklace. Mom’s necklace. Then I knew what he had done…and what still needed doing.
Have you ever wondered what a running engine does to a face?
Daddy found out the day he died.
All it took was one quick shove and slamming the hood down with my body weight. Then it was over except the screaming.
A Wheel A Rollin’ Harrison Kim
Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air. This one’s stopped except for a single fresh screw with a shining thread. All out there alone in the Universe rusty and dead on the outside. That single oily protuberance pokes out, that last forlorn hope. Curiosity as Ezekial the space walker bobs near, a tiny, suited soul examining this humungous rusty thing…. attached cameras beaming back to earth what is discovered. He’s a fly on the rust, a piece of white dust against the brown, as he uses X rays and close microscopic focus, as he burns and parts the surface with his blowtorch. We must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all of us humans always looking for more, thinks Ezekial, he was a suicide case after the death of his wife that’s why they sent him up there, a disposable volunteer for this risky job, and he wanted it! The change in his life a miracle, and now to go out doing something interesting, his brain implanted with new attitude changing electrodes, he’s life loving now but it’s for the whole planet not just himself. He will go out doing something important for everyone. His welding torch opens the pipe, funny the hole widens so easily, becoming the face of his now-dead wife. How miraculous! He peers closer and inside the face he sees his whole existence inside that eye everything from his birth to his death…as that eye blinks and covers him. His space suited body and soul absorbed by that shape shifting mass blinking just under the rust on the wheel. After Ezekial disappears the screw extends out further and becomes slightly shinier. It’s found one more drop of oil and Ezekial has joined his loving wife.
The Pipe Charles Gramlich
“See that rusty pipe?” I asked my victim.
“What? Why are you showing me that?” he asked in his irritating whine.
“Because I’m going to chain you to it and leave you there.”
“No! Why…would you do that?”
“Too many reasons to name,” I said.
“Please, you can’t. I’ll starve to death.”
My chuckle echoed. “Oh, you won’t have time to starve.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t see them but that pipe is full of microfractures. Should have been replaced years ago but it’s still in use. And every day…. Several times a day, they pump boiling water through it. Those fractures are going to give way any time now.”
“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”
“Preach it, brother.”
“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”
“Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t take another day trapped inside your sad, putrid, useless form.”
“Please!”
“Shut it,” I said.
I looped the chains I’d brought around the pipe, then fitted the manacles on my wrists and snapped them closed. A few jerks against the constraints showed that I—that we—were solidly bound. And already the sound of boiling water gushed through the pipe toward me. Would this be the moment when the pipe ruptured? Or next time? Or the one after? The sooner the better.
I should never have possessed this disgusting sack of human flesh. I’d never imagined how clingy a desperate mortal could be. But once the flesh and muscle boil away, the bones won’t be able to hold me. This devil will go back to Hell. It hadn’t been that bad a place. This time, I’ll appreciate it more.”
The first thirty days after the world ended were the worst, as those days were filled with blame.
Lynette had asked Robbie to help with stockpiling. Just as with the blizzards, as with the hurricanes, and with the tornadoes, he had waited too long and shown little to no effort in trying to accumulate food or water. That had left them to the rations that Lynette had been able to scrounge which had been pitiful at best. Prior to the virus, the stores were veritable wastelands due to trucks being stuck on the wrong side of the bombed bridges. Then, the virus had struck and the peninsula was quarantined.
Lynette had just declared Robbie “the death of them both” when he showed her the vomit gun.
“We will get what we want and it won’t cost us a thing or put us in any danger.” He grinned around yellowing teeth.
“Where did you even get that?”
“Dark web.”
She scowled, partly because his breath was bad and partly because she could not believe that she was stranded with this idiot. “When I asked you to prepare…to get us ready for quarantine…you went to the dark web and got some…gun?”
“Not just a gun, a vomit gun.”
“I heard that the first time.” She eyed the remaining products in her kitchen and estimated that they had five days of food remaining if they consumed only a few crackers and pretzels each day. The fruit and vegetables had gone quickly. They had gobbled all produce before it could spoil. They had no meat, not even canned fish, as domesticated and game animals had shown the effects of the virus first. “And how will a vomit gun help us, exactly?”
“I’ve been thinking…,” he began and Lynette hated that he started most conversations that way. Mainly because she knew that any type of thought was a struggle for him. “We shoot people with it.” He was more excited about this prospect than he should be. “They weaken, like they have the virus, or worse, and we steal their stuff. They are so busy yacking their brains out, that they can’t fight us.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s that simple.”
***
They invaded the community three blocks away from them first. The residents lived behind a gate; the gate was to keep people like Lynette and Robbie out. Even without a vomit gun, their type was not welcome in the high income community.
Robbie had not practiced with the gun. His ineptitude was evident when the gun jammed and they were chased to the other side of the gates, prodded by pitchforks like the monsters they appeared to be.
“The death of us both,” Linette reminded him as they ran back to their home, where Linette was forced to further divide the remaining crackers and pretzels.
***
The following day, Robbie set up target practice in their yard. He aimed for the unstable bullseyehe had constructed from an old sheet and Linette’s lipstick.
“I don’t understand it,” he called to Linette, “there’s no vomit.”
She leaned out the window and pointed to the sheet. “There is no mouth or esophagus or stomach on that sheet, either. Where would the vomit come from?”
Robbie considered this for a moment and then a sparkle reached his eyes. He crouched low to the ground and waited. Lynette went back to fussing over rations and contemplating ways to stretch them further when her tactics were interrupted by a bellow from Robbie.
“Well I’ll be!” he shouted. “It works, Lynette! Our problems are solved!”
She peered out the window to see a rabbit on its side. “What did you do?” she asked with alarm.
Robbie looked at the creature with a combination of regret and relief. “I guess it was too strong for him. It’s meant for people. But we know it works.”
He thought he would cheer her up by adding, “I’ve been thinking…we go back out tonight. In the meantime, we can clean and eat this, right?”
***
Lynette begrudgingly put on black clothes, a black knit hat, and a mask to return to the gated community with Robbie. The prior failed invasion informed this attack: they knew to have the gun ready.
They entered a lavish home by having Robbie wiggle through the dog door. He had lost enough weight that he had room to spare. Once inside, he unlocked the door for Lynette.
He started to explain something, but Lynette put a finger to her lips. She hoped they would be able to steal some supplies without notifying the homeowners. She had a bad feeling about the gun.
Robbie nodded and they headed to the kitchen. Lynette found boxes of pasta and bags of beans that she quickly slipped into the pillowcase she had brought. She was so engrossed in pillaging that she failed to notice Robbie stiffen beside her.
“What are you doing?” a man’s voice yelled. Lynette turned to see an older couple standing at the entrance of the kitchen. The man held a baseball bat and the woman cowered behind him.
“I’m hungry,” Robbie responded, as if this were a suitable answer to the question. He aimed at the man and pulled the trigger of the vomit gun. Within moments, the gun’s moniker rang true and the man bent over, clutching his abdomen and splattering vomit on the linoleum floor.
His wife shrieked and Robbie shot her, too. Lynette could not believe that two normal sized humans could produce so much vomit.
“Help.” The woman struggled to get the words out. She and her husband were obviously weakened and any type of ailment could prove deadly in this new world.
“Robbie, we gotta go,” Lynette said, finding it difficult to take her eyes off the failing couple.
“I’ve been thinking…. “ Robbie turned to Lynette, pointing the gun at her. “There isn’t enough here for me and you. I mean for long-term survival.”
Lynette had time to register that the couple had fallen to the floor and seemed eerily still when Robbie pulled the trigger. She realized she had been wrong; he wasn’t the death of them both.
Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Starlight sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …
The Eye Charles Gramlich
An eye opened in the forest, a red fleshy eye. Then another. And another. No one realized what they were, or what they promised. Just nature’s oddities, humans thought. People went about their business, using the world as they saw fit. But now the world was watching. It had been asleep for a few billion years but that long nap was over. How long before it opened its mouth too—and began to feed?
My Little Flower Lee Andrew Forman
Homemade medicine drops between your lips at my discretion. You are ill, that I know. No doctor need visit. One drop, two drops, don’t cry. Your beauty shines too brightly, attracts too many flies. Your protector I was, still am. I’ll make sure they can’t get to you, my dear.
The concoction, a recipe not my own. I paid in a back-alley shop, only known by rumor. Bones dangled from the ceiling and candles moved shadows.
I visit daily since you passed, watch this strange flower grow. I wonder if you hear me there, praying to your ghost. I stroke the petals and think of you—my little flower, how I loved you then, now, and forever.
The Blooming Kathleen McCluskey
The jungle swallowed him whole, the dense foliage closing in like living walls. Sweat clung to his skin as he pushed deeper, following the rancid stench that thickened with every step. Then, he saw it. A monstrous bloom, red and fleshy. It was huge, sprawled against the base of a gnarled tree. Its petals, speckled like diseased flesh, pulsed so slightly as if breathing. The center gaped open, a cavernous maw lined with slick, ridged folds. The air soured farther, thick with decay. Flies buzzed around something lodged within the gaping cavity. A bone, yellowed and splintered, jutted from the depths.
His stomach clenched. The camera in his hands trembled, the lens trained on the grotesque marvel. He had found it! His colleagues had mocked him, now here he stood in front of it. He raised his camera, sweat rolling down his fingers. The moment the shutter clicked, the petals twitched. A wet, sucking noise oozed from within.
A spray of warm, gooey fluid hit his arm and face. Searing pain flared across his skin, burning, eating through his flesh like acid. He staggered back, his vision tunneling as his nerves ignited in agony.
The petals unfurled and surged forward, grabbing him, pulling his collapsing body closer. Enveloped in the wet, pulsating petals, he writhed while needle-like spikes protruded from the fleshy walls. They pierced his skin and anchored him in place while the flower’s insides began to constrict. His scream barely escaped before the flower slammed shut. Muffled sounds of feasting echoed through the jungle.
By morning, the jungle was silent. The flower sat motionless, its petals gleaming. The only sign of what had transpired was the faintest smear of red on the tree roots.
The Flower Ear Harrison Kim
My flappy flower ear can hear everything, the tiny tendrils quivering, taking in all you say. There are millions of my listeners everywhere, as everyone knows by now. My spotted flesh and eardrum ring sit planted at the side of every dwelling and business, subway entrance and even on the trees in the park. All whispers caught. All words taken in and all discussions acquired. You might think you are saying nothing wrong, but fear not, I will decide for you. As my flaps flap and my circle thickens and thins over all my millions of ears, I ponder the value of your existence. Shall I approve of all the things you said and did? No, that is impossible. But there are minor sins and venial sins. Sure, if you embezzled a few dollars, ate all the red smarties, or cheated on your wife, more power to you. You’re a person after my own heart. But If you talked against me personally there can be no forgiveness. I have to say “that’s not very nice,” and show you the consequences.
If you see my flappy ear shimmering over your bed at night, you know it’s judgement time. Rise and clasp the blossom to your heart before it strikes. That way, things will go easier for you. Then the flower will either penetrate, gentle but keen as a razor blade, and become part of you as well as me, or it will suck its ring around your red centre and pull the organ out, chewing and absorbing your treacherous fleshy soul.
Red Spores A.F. Stewart
A starless night, black as pitch, so the red streak lit up the sky in brilliance and when it landed, the fireball exploded and engulfed half the woods in flames. Sirens screamed as fire trucks and police swarmed the scene, people yelling and pushing everyone back to clear the area.
In the morning, the black SUVs came with the scientists and the quarantine.
Then people started dying.
It happened swiftly, before anyone understood. The cough came first, lungs filling with blood, choking folks on their own fluid. Then the skin shrivelled, dehydration creating a thirst no amount of water could quench. The last stage was the bloating, where the abdomen swelled to twice its size before bursting, spewing putrid guts and crimson spores into the world.
But that wasn’t the worst.
Where the spores landed, plants grew within hours. Giant pulsing leathery flowers, spotted red, emitting a hypnotic hum, enticing people with their siren call. No one resisted, no one protested; we were willing prey. Yet, everyone watched in horror as it happened. The crunch of bone, the blood, their screams, your eyes fixed on your neighbours being eaten alive, knowing your turn was coming. I watched my mama die and it’ll be me soon enough.
I want to run away, to shriek, but I can’t. I stay in line waiting to be devoured.
The best I can do is record our story and hope someone finds it…
Once in a Lifetime Richard Meldrum
It was an invitation-only event. The rich, the well-connected and a rabble of assorted ‘influencers’ were asked to attend the blooming of the century plant. No riff-raff were allowed.
It was held at the Botanic Gardens, an elegant Victorian glass and steel structure housed in one of the city parks.
The invitees flocked to the event, despite the lack of canapés and champagne. This really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The clue was in the name, the plant produced a single flower every eighty to a hundred years.
The cream of local society crowded round the huge plant, cell phones in hand, waiting expectantly for the glistening bulb atop the massive leaves to burst open in a cacophony of color and spectacle. The staff discreetly left the area and made sure the doors were closed.
Standing outside, they listened with muted glee to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from within. Then there was silence. After a judicious period, they opened the doors to see the pile of bodies. It was a well-preserved secret that the bulb released an air-borne toxin on opening.
The Bloom Miriam H. Harrison
She had first encountered it in her dreams. On those nights, the bloom spread wide and waiting like a lover. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the forest, of course. She knew the cold, slick touch of the naiads, the rough, knotty embrace of the dryads, the sensuous whispers of wisps beyond her touch. But this beckoning bloom was different, promising a singular experience, and she was woken each morning by goosebumps and anticipation.
So began her days scouring through the forest, sure that the bloom itself was more than mere dream. Journeying in and out of the forest soon seemed inefficient, so she gave up on returning home, sleeping amid the trees and stars, hoping that her dreams might draw her closer. And in those dreams the bloom waited, hinting at mystery and possibility.
Her life was lived between dreaming and searching. It was a strange sort of half life. But she did not fear death—she only feared giving up on the search. The search for something more. Something beyond the limits of her life as she had known it.
And so when she finally found it, it only seemed fitting that the bloom would smell of death. Not a threat, but a promise. As she gave her tired self over to its embrace, she felt the singular relief of yielding to the timeless unknown.
Le Fleur Elaine Pascale
One day, when the Little Prince was tending to his rose, he noticed another plant sprouting. “This is no baobab,” he confirmed, “it’s a seed from who knows where.”
The plant asked for a moment to ready itself, and the Little Prince dutifully turned his back. When the plant announced that it was ready, the Little Prince turned to see the most startling and strange blossom. Its petals resembled tentacles and its core looked like a widely opened eye.
The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.
The Little Prince said, “You should be careful, there’s a war on my planet between sheep and flowers.” The Little Prince examined the plant carefully. “And you don’t have thorns.”
“I don’t need thorns,” the plant sniffed, “I have teeth.”
“And what is the purpose of teeth?”
“It’s not a matter of importance,” the plant replied.
The Little Prince was confounded. For a flower, there was nothing more important than its thorns. Certainly teeth, being so rare, ranked even higher.
“My rose is not going to like this.”
The plant craned its petals to get a better look at the rose.
“She seems mean.”
“Flowers can’t be mean, they’re vulnerable. For instance, while I am talking to you, she could be eaten by a sheep.” The Little Prince wanted to look away from the new plant, but he was captivated.
“Or by me.”
The Little Prince found he had no choice. He was compromised by his affection for both of his plants. He began traveling the galaxy, bringing visitors back with him, to satiate the new plant and keep his rose safe.
Travelers beware: if you find yourself in a desert landscape and meet a child with golden hair and laughter like bells, run as fast and far as you can!
The scouting trip had been in the works for months. What had not been planned was the loss of a scout on the second day of the trip.
And not just any scout, they had lost Hayden. Hayden was the troop member who needed the most attention. Each event the scout master planned was precluded with warnings from Hayden’s mother. Hayden had allergies, Hayden had diagnoses and conditions, Hayden required eyes on him at all times.
Hayden was special.
Hayden’s mother’s anxiety had grown with the approach of the camping trip. She had called the scout master daily to remind him that Hayden needed to take his Ritalin. She had explained that he needed his sleep mask and ear plugs even in the deepest, darkest woods. She had produced his inhaler and backup inhaler.
She reminded him that Hayden was special.
Despite Hayden’s mother, or maybe to spite her, the scout master determined to treat Hayden as if he were any other boy as the troop set off into the woods.
That first morning had been accompanied by clear blue skies and a bright sun. Backpacks brimming with supplies and snacks, the boys had told “Whistler” stories as they ascended the mountain.
“If you hear a whistle, run for your life!”
“He will skin you alive!”
“He will eat your eyeballs!”
“He carries a sack of his victim’s bones on his back!”
Hayden had his ear buds in so he did not join in the spinning of tales. His mother had insisted that Hayden needed to listen to nature sounds to ground him. The scout leader had suggested that Hayden listen to the nature sounds of the actual forest they would be walking through, but that recommendation was derided because Hayden was special.
Midway up the mountain, the troop stopped for lunch. This was the first time Hayden disappeared.
”Hayden…” the boys called up into the trees, figuring he had gotten the urge to climb.
“Hayden…” the boys called into the bushes, assuming he was hiding.
It wasn’t until they had finished their post-lunch granola bars that Hayden reappeared.
He pointed at a wrapper and announced, “Those are made in a facility that processes nuts.”
The other boys laughed at the word “nuts.”
“Hayden, where were you?” the scout master asked.
The boy said nothing as he hiked his backpack higher, causing the interior items to rattle.
***
Despite the scary tales they had been telling all day, the boys had fallen asleep at a decent hour from the fatigue of hiking. The scout master was awoken with rising shouts to accompany the rising sun.
“Hayden is gone!”
“He’s gone!”
“The Whistler got him!”
The scout master looked in the empty tent and then asked, “Are you sure he is gone? Can he hear us calling? Are his ear plugs in?”
The boys exchanged quizzical looks.
“Let’s not notify his mother just yet.” The scout master feigned composure. He said this despite knowing how Hayden’s mother was, or maybe because he knew how Hayden’s mother was.
They spent the day scouring the woods, looking for Hayden. That night, no one slept. The boys reported that the sound of whistling kept them awake. They were certain that the Whistler was coming to collect their bones.
“He will drag us around the mountains forever!”
“We will never make it home!”
“Poor Hayden!”
The boys claimed they heard the rattling of bones coming from the bushes. They noted shadows moving through the forest.
“We have to leave!”
“He is after us!”
“We have to face Hayden’s mother at some point.”
The scout master was more afraid of Hayden’s mother than he was of the Whistler, so he asked for one more day to look for Hayden, agreeing to descend the mountain at the following daybreak.
***
The rising sun brought panicked whispers coming from inside the tent. The boys called for the scout master, “We can’t leave the tent; he is right outside, whistling.”
Despite knowing the troop would be worried, or perhaps to spite the troop, there was a whistler seated by the dying campfire, a very special one.
It was Hayden, whistling through his nearly empty inhaler and stripping unidentified hides, stashing the bones in his backpack.
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.
Hugo watched from his bedroom window as his wife stuffed something into the garbage receptacle he had dragged to the curb hours before. It was 3:15am and she had done this on four subsequent trash nights.
The following morning he decided to ask her about her jaunt to the trash can. Having lived with her for nearly 30 years, he knew he could not speak to her before her first sip of coffee. She had a superstition about it. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? I woke to go to the bathroom and you weren’t in bed.”
She pretended to be concerned with cracking the shells on their eggs. “Hmm? What was that, honey?”
“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”
“You know I’m going through the change. It complicates everything. It’s hard to sleep, eat, or find a comfortable temperature.”
That didn’t satisfy his curiosity about her weekly pilgrimage to the trash cans.
“Maybe we switch sides? I sleep closer to the door and you sleep next to the window…for the breeze.”
“Oh no, it’s bad luck for a couple to swap sides after so many years. We were just talking about that at book club.”
He stirred his coffee thoughtfully before responding. “I thought you talked about books at book club.”
She laughed. “We talk about all sorts of things.”
“Mostly complaints about husbands?”
“Of course not.” She appeared focused on flipping the eggs with precision. “We are supportive of each other’s marriages; we don’t want to promote negativity.”
He saw her spoon a powder onto the skillet. “That’s not salt…”
“Nope. Remember, I told you that Jody Hunter came back from the Amazon. She had an amazing trip.”
“And she brought you back seasoning?”
“Not just seasoning, this is a type of mushroom that is good for women of our age. It helps with mood and clarity.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am adding some to your eggs, too, as you seem to need a brain boost…you don’t remember us talking about this at all? About how she brought back some powders and tinctures and…spiritual icons.”
“Spiritual icons?” Hugo snorted. “She is filling you with nonsense.”
She didn’t answer but stared out the window at the utilities truck that had come to receive their collection.
***
The following week Hugo got up at 5:00 AM and went to the garbage bin as his wife snored soundly in bed. He pulled out several large bags; one had a pinhole leak that dribbled onto his slippers like a dotted line.
At the bottom of the bin was a small blue marble.
Is that what she has been hiding? Where did the marble come from and why did she need to throw it away in the dark of the night?
He took the marble and planned to question her over breakfast.
He waited for her to finish her morning affirmations; she had a strong belief that saying them influenced the outcome of her day. He noticed that she read from a notebook while reciting quietly to herself. She had been adding many new rituals to her routine.
“You know when I was a boy I collected the darndest things.” He began, watching her sip her coffee.
She nodded. “I know you had those matchbox cars. And the coins from when your dad travelled.”
“And marbles. Did I ever tell you about my marble collection?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s funny, I can’t remember you talking about a marble collection.”
He slapped his knee as if this were all a good joke. “Really? All these years and I never mentioned it?”
“Mustn’t have been a very good collection.”
“Au contraire! It was really something. I had marbles everywhere. Stashed away in jars and bottles. My favorite were the blue.” He pulled a marble from his pocket. “Like this.”
Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?’
“Why did you throw it away?”
“You can’t have that.” She snatched the marble from his hand and raced to the door. From the window he could see her looking down the street at the utility truck that had just taken their garbage and was driving away.
She was frantic, pacing in the street and rolling the marble between her hands.
When Hugo went to the door to tell her to come back inside, she rushed past him into the house and grabbed the car keys. Moments later, she pulled out of the driveway, with no concern for the fact that he needed to get to work and they shared a car.
Thirty minutes later, she returned.
“Don’t ever do that,” she snarled as she threw the keys to him. He had lived with her long enough to recognize when she was furious.
***
The next week, as he tried to fall asleep on trash night, he found her staring at him. “You did something very bad,” she said in a voice that was completely unfamiliar. “You need to learn a lesson.” She showed him a red marble. She then left the room. From the window, he could see her burying it in the trash.
The following morning they consumed a silent breakfast. Hugo went to work as usual, but by late afternoon, he felt sick, feverish. He took to his bed for days.
When he was finally able to leave his bed and go to the breakfast table, it was trash collection day again. He could not believe that he had lost an entire week. He scolded himself for being nearly as superstitious as his wife.
“I hope you’re happy,” he told her. “You planted that idea in my head of the red marble having meaning.”
She peered at him over her half-consumed cup of coffee. “Count your blessings. It could have been a black marble.”
“You’re crazy. I am not listening to any more of this.”
She shrugged. “Marjorie Baker put a black marble in her trash last night.”
He lifted a piece of toast, noting that the trash had already been picked up. “I give. What does black—”
His question was both cut off and answered by the sound of sirens racing to the Baker house.
Pen of the Damned 