Hope For Sale

~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

Though small, the key was heavy and intricate, almost needlessly ornate. Its tangle of curlicues wrapped and twisted like overgrown brambles.

“Are you sure this is the one?” she asked, turning the key in her hand doubtfully.

“Without a doubt,” the merchant said cheerily. “The key to the heart!”

“To any heart?”

“Perhaps not quite any,” the merchant conceded. “But most, by far.”

She remained unconvinced. “But how would I know?”

“The same way we know anything, my dear,” he laughed. “By trying, and trying again. It will not be long before you find its proper match. It is always nearer than you think.”

She was not quite sure that she believed him. But neither did she wish to leave empty handed. Not when there was hope for sale.

***

Trying proved to be a messy, uncertain process. True, the key fit many a heart. But so far those hearts seemed hollow, more show than substance. She tried each time to imagine she had found her treasure, only to leave with her regrets and that heavy key back in hand.

But worse were the hearts it didn’t fit. The hearts broken and bloodied by trying too hard. She stepped away from another still-writhing body and regretted the blood-stained key that had caused so much pain.

After a time, she stopped trying. She washed the blood from the key’s ornate tangles, polished it as best she could, hoping the merchant might yet buy it back. But she returned to the market only to learn that he had long since disappeared.

***

She wore the key around her neck, not knowing what else to do with it. Not ready to try, but not ready to part with the hope.

She pondered the hearts she had known. The empty disappointments. The broken, bloodied mysteries. What had she hoped to find there? What was it she was missing?

How strange to realize that she did not know. Did she even know the state of her own heart? Could she? Did she have the courage to find out?

Her hands shook as she took the key from around her neck. Looking in the mirror, she traced her fingers down from her clavicle, saw her own locked heart. She thought of the empty many.  She thought of the bloodied few. Which was she?

The pain was worse than she could have imagined. Though small, the key cut deep. For a moment, she wondered if knowing was worth the pain. But even in the pain, she felt the contact, the release. She felt her heart opening. 

She looked down to see herself, wide and empty and aching. But at last, she knew. She knew that she was empty. And she knew that there was hope. With that heavy key, she could begin to fill the emptiness herself.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.

Diversion

~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

Initially, my journey had gone to plan. It wasn’t until I was instructed by the GPS to turn off the highway onto a narrow country road that the problems started. Just as my tires crunched onto the dirt road, the clouds, threatening all day, finally released their snow. I checked the GPS and saw I had about fifty miles to go. I decided I could make it, as long as the snow didn’t get worse.

It got worse.

I found myself crawling along at about ten miles an hour. The snow was settling and the going was slippery. I had neglected to put on my winter tires and could feel the car losing traction and sliding dangerously towards the ditch. I slowed to a crawl, worried I might lose control. The wind buffeted my car, making the going even more unsteady. It didn’t take me long to notice my GPS had malfunctioned, it was showing I was still on the highway. My cell phone had no bars. I realized I had no idea where I was going. The road was too narrow to turn round. I decided to keep going, to try to find a house where I could ask for directions.

“Why the hell didn’t he just agree to meet me at the office?”

I already knew the answer; rich clients expected their architects to come to them, not the other way round. I had to drive out of the city to meet my newest potential customer at his country estate. He didn’t care if it was February or if snow was forecast; the planning meeting was scheduled for today. If I refused to attend; well, there were plenty of other eager, young architects happy to step into my shoes.

The road started to incline. I floored the accelerator to keep my momentum up. My car wasn’t four-wheel drive. I reached the top, just.

As I crested the hill, there was a four-way stop. There was a police cruiser parked up and a cop standing beside it, wearing a high visibility jacket. I lowered my window, feeling the biting cold of the wind for the first time.

“Is there a problem?”

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

His voice was strangely flat. I guessed he was bored.

“Thank you!”

There was no response.

I turned left and headed down the hill. A sign told me a place called the Witch’s Gorge was two miles away. As I drove, an idea dawned on me. I nearly slapped myself. I should have asked the cop where I was and how to get to my destination. Luckily, this road was a bit wider, so I could turn the car round, albeit with some difficulty, and head back up the hill. As I arrived at the top, I saw him still standing by the police cruiser.

“Do you know how to get to the Croxley house from here?”

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

“I know, you just told me. I just want some directions. I’m lost.’

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

“You just said that. Are you okay?”

I got out my car, thinking he was suffering from hypothermia or something. As I got closer I realized something was definitely wrong. The figure was lumpy and misshapen. Instinctively, I put my hand out. My hand encountered something that felt like straw. I used my cell phone to illuminate the face. A pair of very human eyes stared out at me from a mass of dried grass, topped by a police officer’s cap. The eyes were alive, full of pain and despair.

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

There was no mouth.

The next few moments were a blur. I vaguely remember running through the snow, jumping into my car and hitting the accelerator. The next memory was reaching the highway. I made it home in record time. I never did get to meet my rich client.

No-one believed me. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. It took a few days for the news to emerge, but then it hit all the main outlets. Five abandoned cars, including a police cruiser, had been found near the Witch’s Gorge, stuck in deep snow. There was no sign of the occupants. The assumption was they’d left their vehicles and wandered off into the snowy wilderness. The authorities termed the search a ‘recovery operation’, meaning they were looking for bodies. I suspected they wouldn’t be found and I was right.

The road hadn’t really been closed. Something had set up the terrifying straw effigy, something that was smart enough to understand the prey it sought. Something had taken the eyes and the vocal cords from one of the victims and crafted a facsimile; something that was close enough to pass for a cop. Something that could fool us. The victims were sent down towards the gorge, and God alone what happened to them then.

I was grateful I’d escaped, but it was pure, unadulterated luck. What still keeps me from sleeping is the sure and certain knowledge that whatever killed those folks is, without a doubt, still out there.

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

The Whistler

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 9 Comments

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.

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

But What of Home

~ Charles Gramlich ~ 3 Comments

Always, the man traveled, first away from his home in the country, then away from the city, then away from Earth, the sun, the solar system. Ever onward, ever outward. At nearly the speed of light, which didn’t seem fast enough. He called himself an explorer, never a coward.  In the coldest, deepest depths of space between stars, he came upon a derelict spaceship floating silently. But not emptily. He went aboard. 

The other pilot in his seat was long dead. He wasn’t human but the man felt a kinship with him. This being, too, had been a traveler, an explorer. And somewhere along the way he’d despaired and opened his space suit to a vacuum he’d let into his own ship. He’d left a last recorded log. The button to play it rested under one thin tentacle. 

The man pressed the button. And he understood the message. These aliens must have had some kind of translator that connected directly to the man’s brain waves and turned strange gibberish into language. The words said:

I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. If you’re hearing this, go home. In the end, there’s nothing but home. 

The man began to weep. He thought of the family he’d left behind, the lovers he’d spurned, the children he’d never had. He went back to his own ship and turned it around. He blasted for Earth. He yearned for the blue marble; instead, he found a dirty brown cue ball. The traveler had forgotten one thing in his urge to flee his past—time dilation. He’d aged a few years in his journey; the earth had aged millions. There was no home to go to. 

Before opening his suit helmet to the air, and his ship to the vacuum, the man recorded a message for whoever might find it, though he knew it would be useless: “You can’t go home again. The only thing to do is never leave!” 

∼ Charles Gramlich

© Copyright Charles Gramlich. All Rights Reserved.

The Screaming Pool

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Screaming….loud…  the normal swimming pool sound, the splashing, leaping kids, the developmentally disabled, the laughing old men with hairy backs boiling red round the hot tub especially at mid-afternoon… but who is that average lean fellow feeling the jet fountain spray all over his bald head?  Yes, some kind of officer of the law…looks like his compatriots are here already, laughing and joking with the differently abled children.  Some kind of charity service.  They do it once a month.  A good gig on their 80 thousand a year salaries.  Must be nice.

I’m forever nervous in the presence of the police.  Ten years ago, I did something.  Never caught.  So, every time there’s aspects of the law in here it’s scary.  Are they finally coming for me?  I just act like all the others, nonchalantly enjoying myself.  

I was the caretaker here, you see, ten years ago.  There was an accident.  Something to do with the chlorine.  A pipe burst and the aroma escaped and burned a lot of people.  Even the insides of their windpipes.  Anyway, you should’ve heard the screaming then!

The investigation blamed a faulty valve.  They gave the sufferers lots of financial compensation, including me.  Of course, I know the reason for the fault.  I’m much closer to pipes and chlorine and the pool surface than I am to anyone.  The reason’s deep in my heart, now.  I wanted them to know, to know who I was.  That was my primary motive.  To be recognized finally, in the greatest light, as a hero.  So, to be a hero, I had to cause pain, chaos, even within myself, and then I had to right it.

What’s a wonder is that I’m still the caretaker, the custodian, the only one besides the lifeguard not moving or smiling, back here behind my office window regarding all the kids and parents.  How they yell in ecstasy in the water!  Splashing and thrashing, kicking arms and legs.  Not unlike the throes of death sometimes.  It’s a miracle to still be here, free and victorious, serving the public these many years.

The itching in my eyes all the time bothers me, and my skin, too, it’s always so dry, and I carry that pool smell.  Even when I go to bed at night, the chlorine lingers, a constant reminder of where I’m from, who I am.  It’s like I’ve become a Neptune creature over all these forty years. I now rather enjoy the daily chemical layering, and the memories from it, and hesitate to wash it away.  

Yes, they still say hi to me, the ones who know me, and remember the accident.
The others, the strangers, might turn their heads, or pretend not to notice my disfigurement.  In the accident, my face burned and burned.  What they don’t know is that I was very conscious of that faulty valve, and I purposely let it blow, I even tapped it a few times with my huge pipe wrench.  Despite knowing the immediate pain that would follow, I looked forward to the long-term pleasure.

Life is so dull, so humdrum and low paid, that often the only way out is to tap at something.  You don’t want to be caught; you just want things to change.  And change they do.  It takes a lot of will, but if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.  At least, that’s what I discovered.  So much sympathy that came my way.  I rescued several children from the accident scene, despite my injuries, while fighting the noxious fumes.  The parents still invite me over for visits and give me suppers.  I saved an old man, and tended to the injuries of the young people, using my top notch first aid training, applying all the special breathing masks with consummate skill.

 The city gave me accolades for that.  My picture and story featured on the TV news, and a special medal made, presented by the mayor.  For weeks, interviews and accolades, and visits to my hospital bed.  So many flowers and gifts!  And now I sit here behind my office glass, and watch, and listen to the joyful screamers.   Wonderful to see the police helping too, heroes simply by default.  I had to work for my victory, and I have paid the price, despite always, in a judicial sense, living free.  My drooping mouth and misshapen face remind me of this.  Every day I notice the mirrors, reflecting my scars, and more subtly and enjoyably, my deeds.

Opposites are sometimes compatible, overlapping.  The bad and the good, the burning and the healing.  I clean the pool, and it becomes dirty again.  I release the gas, then rescue the victims.  Screaming can mean pleasure, or suffering.  The common sound has two opposing moods.  As long as I’m here, I can decide, every day, which mood that the swimmers and bathers experience, and remember.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

The Harvesters

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as the travelers approached the village. The dirt road was lined with golden fields, stretching endlessly into the horizon. In a world where crops had long withered and humanity teetered on the edge of starvation, the sight was almost miraculous. 

Claire was the first to speak. “It’s…perfect.” Her voice was filled with awe and disbelief. 

The villagers greeted them warmly. Their simple clothing and old-fashioned manners put the travelers at ease. They were invited to stay for a meal and offered beds in a large communal house. A stoic elder, his eyes as sharp as they were kind, introduced himself as Elias. 

“Stay. Rest.” Elias said. “The road is cruel, but here, we are blessed.”

Over dinner, the travelers marveled at the abundance of food, fresh vegetables, a hearty stew and ripe fruit. Elias stood, his black robe billowed slightly in the breeze. He gave a cryptic toast. “To the harvest. To the Cycle.” The villagers echoed the words solemnly. 

Afterward, as the group settled into their rooms, Dylan, the most curious of the group, couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. The fields had been too perfect. The villagers’ eyes lingered a little too long when glancing their direction. 

That night, Dylan woke to the sound of a faint whisper carried in the wind. At first he thought it was Claire or Mark talking in their sleep. But as he strained to listen, he realized the sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was outside, rising from the fields like a sighing breath. 

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others. He stared out the window at the crops glowing faintly under the moonlight. 

The cool, night air wrapped around him as he stepped outside. The village was still, the only movement was the gentle sway of the crops. The whispers grew louder as he approached the barn at the edge of the field. 

The structure loomed in the darkness. Its warped wood twisted and bowed as if the building itself were struggling under some unseen weight. The surface was cracked and weathered with deep grooves that resembled claw marks. Dylan hesitated at the door, gripping the rough edge of the frame. The whispers were almost deafening now, a cacophony of voices overlapping and merging. His stomach churned as he realized that the voices were not those of the villagers. They were coming from beneath the barn. 

He pushed the door open. 

Inside, the air was suffocating and hot, thick with the scent of wet earth plus something metallic. The barn was empty except for rows of tools hanging from the far wall. Sickles, hooks and shears, none of them were rusty or worn. They gleamed, sharp and polished, as though freshly cleaned. 

Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to pulse faintly, a rhythmic vibration that matched the cadence of the whispers, He stepped forward, cautiously. The heat rose with each step, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. When his foot pressed onto a loose plank, the sound beneath the floor changed. It wasn’t a vibration. Something was moving. 

Dylan knelt and pulled at the loose plank. It came away easily, revealing a writhing network of roots. They looked organic but unnatural, slick and pulsating like veins. The whispers were louder now, emanating from the roots themselves. He stumbled backward. HIs heart was pounding. His foot caught on something and he fell. Looking down, he saw the outline of a face, a human face pressed into the ground beneath the roots. The face shifted, its eyes opened and it stared at him with unmistakable awareness. Its mouth moved silently, forming words he couldn’t hear. 

Dylan screamed and stumbled backward. “This…this can’t be real.” 

The barn door creaked open behind him, he spun around to see Claire and Mark standing there. Their faces were pale and drawn, “What is happening, we heard you calling our names.” Claire said, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

Dylan frowned, “I never called for you guys.” He gestured wildly at the exposed roots, “this, this is what is going on! The crops, the barn, the whispers…it’s all connected. I dunno what the fuck is going on but it looks like they’re feeding people to the plants..”

Mark hesitated, then knelt by the roots. His expression hardened as he touched one. “It’s warm,” he said, pulling his hand back quickly. 

The ground beneath them heaved suddenly, the roots twisting and tightening like muscles. The entire barn groaned as if in protest, and the whispers rose to a deafening roar. 

“We need to get out of here,” Claire yelled, grabbing Dylan by the arm. 

Before they could move the barn door slammed shut. The villagers stood outside, their faces serene but unyielding. Elias stepped forward, his hand clasped behind his back. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said calmly. “The harvest is not for the outsider to see.” 

“What the hell is this?” Dylan demanded, his voice cracking. 

“It is life,” Elias answered, his gaze unflinching. “The earth gives but it also takes. The Cycle must continue.”

The villagers surged forward, grabbing Dylan, Claire and Mark. Despite their struggles, the villager’s strength was unnatural, their grip like iron. The trio was dragged deeper into the barn, toward a gaping hole in the floor that hadn’t been there moments before. 

The hole pulsed with light, and the roots writhed as if anticipating a meal. “Let us go!” Claire screamed, kicking at the villagers. 

Elias knelt beside the opening, his calm demeanor unwavering. “You’ll become a part of something eternal. You’ll nourish the fields and live within the Cycle.”

Dylan managed to wrench himself free and grabbed a sickle from the wall. He swung it wildly, catching one villager in the arm. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t even bleed. Mark broke free next, shoving another villager into the pit. The man fell with a sickening crunch and the roots wrapped around his body instantly, pulling him into the earth. 

The barn shook violently, and the whispers turned into a high pitched wail. The villagers hesitated, their trance-like calm breaking for the first time.

“Run!” Dylan shouted, grabbing Claire by the arm.

Mark followed, swinging the sickle to keep the villagers at bay. They burst out of the barn into the cool, night air. The fields stretched endlessly before them. The whispers followed, now rising from the crops themselves. 

“This way!” Dylan yelled, leading them toward the road. 

But the road was gone. Where there should have been dirt and gravel, there was only more golden wheat, swaying gently in the breeze. 

“We’re trapped,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling. 

The crops around them began to shift, the stalks twisting and writhing like they were alive. Faces emerged, just like the ones that Dylan had seen earlier. Their mouths were open in silent screams. 

Elias’ voice boomed from behind them. “The fields are endless. The Cycle cannot be escaped.”

Dylan turned to Mark and Claire, his face full of determination. “If we can’t escape. We destroy it.”

He lit a match, holding it against the dry stalks. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life and spreading faster than possible. The fields shrieked, a cacophony of human and inhuman cries. The villagers stumbled back, their serene expression breaking into panic. 

Elias stood at the edge of the flames, his calm expression finally cracking. “What have you done? You have doomed us all.”

The fire consumed everything in its path, racing across the plain. They ran through the chaos dodging falling debris and choking on acrid smoke. Behind them the barn collapsed in a massive explosion of light and sound. The whispers were silenced at last. When they reached the end of the fields, they stumbled onto a road that hadn’t been there before. The night was eerily quiet, the air cool and still. 

Dylan looked back, expecting to see the inferno, but the fields of gold wheat were gone. In their place was a barren stretch of land, blackened and lifeless. 

Mark fell to his knees, gasping for air. “What in the hell was that?” 

“The end of the Cycle,” Dylan said, staring at the familiar desolation. 

They walked down the dirt road in silence, the weight of what they had escaped pressed heavily on their shoulders. Behind them, the whispers began again, soft, faint, distant. 

The Cycle would always find a way to start anew. 

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.

Scrabbles

~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

I hear it inside the walls. The scratching travels up and down, room to room, and I follow with ravenous curiosity. Lines in black marker sprawl across my apartment, tracking the paths it takes. They’ve begun to overlap.

Little gifts it leaves, but always when I’m not looking. I’ve yet to glimpse its form. I once tried, strained my eyes to remain open as long as they could. But eventually they grew heavy and took me to darkness. When I woke, a single tooth lay before me. I searched my mouth with a finger and found the gap.

I no longer wonder where the gifts come from.

I wish to meet my little friend, and the thought occurs—what if I leave an offering in return?

What might satisfy it? Show it I mean no harm, and only want to know my secret companion? I think on this a while, picking at a scab on my head, until the answer is revealed by an inner revelation.

I run to the kitchen, open a drawer, and take out what I need. It likes parts, as shown by the prized collection I’ve gathered on a shelf. And what better part than to show it I want to see?

I take the spoon, place the lip below my lower eyelid, and pray it will suffice.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.

A Holiday Gathering

~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

Long silent, the grandfather clock awakes to strike a full twelve bells at midnight. On a glass topped table, five candles light without the need for human hands, chairs of flawless red and green await the guests.

Dr. Mengele passes through the door with a box of spectral chocolates, the same he gave to Jewish twins when their train arrived in Auschwitz, prized subjects for his surgeries.

Ilse Koch, Red Witch of Buchenwald, appears in fashion, with fancy gifts, made from Jewish prisoners’ tattooed skins. Himmler brings his book on the occult and racist jokes to share, but is ignored.

Adolph and Eva are fashionably late, she with her two terriers, he with his German Shepherd, Blondi, all wagging tails and licking hands, just like things used to be,

before the last few days, when Blondi took the cyanide to assure her master that it worked, and Eva’s terriers were shot, along with Blondi’s newborn pups.

On Christmas eve they celebrate with fictive wine and phantom tea, a toast of Yuletide spirits, and reminisce the joys of bygone times, until at dawn, the clock ticks cease.

∼ Marge Simon

© Copyright Marge Simon. All Rights Reserved.

Bleak

~ afstewart ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

“Like Grandma?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

~ A. F. Stewart

© Copyright 2024 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.

Demure

~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

© Copyright Miriam H. Harrison. All Rights Reserved.