“Are you sure you want a Ouija Board? Especially given that that stuff is… real now. I mean proven.” Reggie ran a finger along the edge of his bandana, sliding stray grey hairs back into place. “You just don’t know…”
Tony pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “I know what I’m doing. It’s because it’s proved I want this tattoo. I’m gonna be a conduit.” He unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the metal tray. “Chicks will love it.”
The old tattoo artist glanced down at the photo. “I know what one looks like, son. What I don’t know is why you want it… on you. That seems risky to me.” He folded the photo and handed it back. “Put that away. The spirit world ain’t a joke.”
“Look. You do tatts for money, right? Are you discriminating?” Tony took out his wallet and showed off a wad of bills. “I got money.”
“How can I be discriminating? We’re both the same race, stupid. I just think…” Reggie glanced at the money in the wallet. “Fine, it’s your funeral. Let’s do it.”
The outline didn’t take but a few hours. When it was done, Tony lay on the table with a double row of alphabet arching his chest over his nipples. Beneath them was a straight line of numbers and a third line that simply said goodbye. Beneath his right collar bone was the word yes. Beneath the left was no. Reggie held up a mirror so Tony could see.
“Sweet,” said Tony. “I can’t wait to see that filled in.” He sat up. “Check this out.”
From his pocket, Tony pulled out a large, silver planchet on a chain. “I’m gonna wear this so I can be played with anytime.” He lay back down in the chair and put it on his chest. “Try me, dude.”
Reggie stepped back. “No way, that stuff ain’t a joke. Put it away.”
Tony laughed, reached for the planchet and froze in mid reach. He lay back down, blank faced.
“Knock it off,” said Reggie. “My shop, my rules. That shit’s not welcome here. Not ever.”
“I am not welcome here?” asked Tony. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling. His voice came out flat and without inflection. Beads of sweat popped up along the old man’s spine.
“No, not here.” Reggie licked his dry lips and slid along the counter towards the door.
On Tony’s chest, the silver planchet twitched along his stomach muscles, down his happy trail to stop at the words goodbye inked on his skin. He jerked upright, catching the planchet in one hand. He stood up.
“Then I go.” He swung his legs off the bench seat and stood up. His wallet fell to the floor. “Payment for your work,” he said without glancing down. “Our contract is fulfilled.” Without another word, he left.
When Reggie finally moved, it was to lock the door and flip the closed sign. That was enough for today.
Bloodied by my own thoughts and that which rages within me, I suffocate in the nearness of my own mind as it ruthlessly brutalizes what some would consider a soul.
Living with such agony is part of my nothingness; I cannot avoid the anguish that comes to me through doors that should be well sealed, shielded from such hated devastation. I beg this putrescence with which I exist for the briefest moment of solitude, longing to be unaware for an infinitesimal reprieve, yet it will never be granted.
I am fated to grasp that which I would avoid knowing. Trapped by what adores me with an innocence my very inhalation of breath betrays, longing all the while for an existence that remains lost to me. My mind is my confinement, escape a possibility that will shred all that I cherish.
All that I cherish… these words said with such conviction only prove me more the fool than I know myself to be. The jester’s role I choose willingly for the eternity that it shall be mine, as I would not wish its anguish nor bestow its grandeur upon another. What shines with blinding clarity from within gnaws its way toward the surface never to escape, ensuring my absolute isolation from the magnificence that would sing me to sleep and offer a world of brighter murkiness which dances just beyond reach.
Torture, this is within my reach. It engulfs my entirety, dulling each glimpse of the gleam caught by another’s eye, muddying every surface that would shine as the me who might have been had I not been locked away in this dungeon of madness. The key to my lock? I see it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eye to. It is sentient – it knows of the sway it holds over me. Entranced, I watch it dangle and shimmy in a breeze born of the hollow cavern that was once a thing of childlike promise within me. Yet sway further away it does with each passing eon encapsulated within the fraction of a moment. One upon another these waves of time pound relentlessly against my consciousness. Each moment stretched into an infinity while watched from below.
Ahhh, from below – that is where it crouches, watching and waiting for a chance to slip my guard; a minuscule crevasse in the wall though which it can seep. This night I believe it has gained entry for the echo of silence is all too deafening to allow feigned ignorance the opportunity to shield the undeserving such as I. Quivering bravado the only weapon against this consuming hatred.
I hear the thunder begin to rumble, I feel it resonate through my damaged psyche, I sense what is coming. Alone I will face all there is to conquer, all there is to fear. Tonight, something of greater menace stalks through the shadows of this storm.
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.
As I looked into the mirror, I found it hard to believe it was my own reflection. When did I get so old?
I traced every line on my face back to its cause. The ones around my eyes due to squinting from reading in bad light with failing eyesight. The receding hairline, when it used to be standing room only on my head. My lips, once full, now tight, cracked and pale. My face, well formed with a chiselled chin, now thin with sunken cheeks.
Time just passed by so quickly. The doctor removed the mirror and checked it for signs of misted glass. He looked towards my family who stood around my bed and shook his head solemnly.
As they put me in the coffin and nailed the lid shut, I wondered how long it would be before my face started to putrefy and rot to such a degree that I would not be able to recognise myself at all.
“How… How could you let this happen?” she crooned as the young boy lay motionless in her arms, blood trickling from his cracked skull. “Why choose him when there are so many others?” Inconsolable, the mother stood and limped back to their home where she placed his still body on a rock bench.
The afternoon and evening spent grieving, she finally drifted off to sleep. In her dreams came the answer, but not one she expected.
“Do not shed a tear for the young one, he was meant for things unkind in this world and could not have stopped himself, Giver of Life.”
“Things, what things? Couldn’t stop himself from what?” the mother asked of the Taker of Life.
“Things I cannot explain. Things that would break you, tear him from you, make you wish you’d never given birth.”
Jerking fitfully, even her dream mind could not fathom a world in which her young son was taken before manhood, before he was old enough to claim a wife who would bear him children of his own. She spat at the Taker of Life, “Nothing could make me wish such a thing! You took him because of greed and corrupt desire – do not claim nobility as your cause. You’re evil! I should tear your effigy from the temple, you do not deserve our reverence.”
As her heart seized, the winged God sighed. “Woman, I speak the truth. He was not destined to be mundane; he would have brought about an end to all. Do you not see what resides in his soul?”
But a mother’s grief can never be sated with prophetic words, nor could she see beyond the love that tinted her sight. The Taker knew of this but did not wish the breeder to suffer. “Kind woman, hear me clear – your boy would have brought ruin to the village, he would have led riots that would have crumbled our civilization, MY civilization.” The Taker is not without compassion. “I can seed you another, kinder child.”
“No! Insuetti was my child, I do not wish to carry one of your kind. I want my boy back – damn your village.” Wracking sobs fed the small gasp heard in the waking world.
“Giver of Life, open your eye, see your boy. Do you not see that his blood runs black as the night? Do you not understand that he was the antithesis of all you are? Must I show you the atrocities he would have wrought?” The mother refused to wake and accept her child for what the Taker claimed him to be. Where there was darkness, she could see only light. Where there was malice, she could remember only his joyous grin. Where there was deceit, she could perceive only childish antics.
Left with no way to console the Giver, the Taker showed her a glimpse of what would have come to pass if the child hadn’t fallen to his death. He showed her images of greed and cruelty, of her sweet boy grown to manhood, of the acts of violence he would commit against their people. The plague he would bring upon the land. He showed her fields barren of crops; their village in ashes; men, women and children slaughtered by the droves. All because her child was brought into this world.
Once again, the Taker prompted for her to wake, to see Insuetti with clear eyes, and she did. She woke, looked upon her son with the reflection of the dream-vision playing against the back of her eyes. She could not deny that she had glimpsed the things the Taker of Life spoke of, but she could not accept them into her heart either.
Climbing upon the stone bench the child’s body rested upon, she straddled the young one, drew a sharp rock across the soft flesh of each inner thigh, and bathed her boy in the blood that gave him life with fervent hope that it would bring him breath again even as it stole the air from her own lungs.
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.
I entered the bar. The man in the booth motioned me over. I sat opposite him. He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
“Name, date of birth, address.”
I wrote down the details, then returned it.
“This her maiden name? And the address where she grew up? Before she knew you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me ask you one thing. Why can’t you just divorce her?”
“She’d take me to the cleaners. I have a girlfriend. She needs to go.”
“Do you want to know what’ll happen to her? I make the same offer to all my clients. Some do, some don’t.”
“Yes.”
“Look at my glass.”
He covered it with his hands. When he removed them, it’d disappeared.
“Voodoo. It isn’t just dolls.”
“Where did it go?”
“That’s the key. I sent it into the future.”
I didn’t believe him; the disappearing glass had been a trick. He was covering up the truth. I played along.
“Is that what you’ll do to her?”
“That’s the plan. But why do you think I needed the details from a time before she met you?”
“To find her in the past?”
I started to understand what he was suggesting, but I still didn’t believe him.
“I won’t deal with her in the present. I’ll return to the past, find her and send her to the future, just like I did with the glass. She’ll no longer exist in this timeline. You won’t be able to meet her. You won’t be able to marry her. The cops won’t come to your door, your family and friends won’t miss her. How can they miss someone they’ve never met?”
My face betrayed me.
“If you don’t believe me, leave. If you want rid of her, pay me.”
I decided. I paid, then rose to leave.
“One thing, I give no guarantees.”
“You said you’d get rid of her.”
“I will, but think about your relationship. All those moments you shared will be gone. She’ll be removed within the next hour. Decide. What I’m about to do cannot be undone.”
“I need to be free.”
“So be it.”
I left. I didn’t believe the story he’d told me, but then I thought, why ask for all those details about her? I decided it was a reassurance, to make me feel better when she disappeared. When he killed her.
I drove home, turning into the driveway of our five-bedroomed house. My law practice afforded us such luxury. The door opened and a strange man stood staring out at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“You must be lost; this is my home.”
I dug out my driving license. The address told me I lived in a poorer, working-class area of the city. I belatedly remembered my wife encouraging me to pursue law school, working two jobs to support us. I remembered her helping me study to pass the Bar exams. I remember telling her I couldn’t have done it without her. It seemed I’d been right.
Pen of the Damned 