Soul Unturned

August 31, 2022August 30, 2022 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 13 Comments

Entwined beneath an afternoon sun, two lovers work in a tiny graveyard in an orchard gone to seed. Sweat pearls their limbs and beads their hair. Their voices moan and echo. The moment passes. As evening shadows begin to sing, they kiss and sigh.

“You sure you want this?” Dean asks. “No changing minds later.”
“I want to be young and in love forever.” Leandra replies

Dean nods, kisses the hollow of her throat. Her blue veins shed warmth. Her life beats there. He can drink it when the time comes. Already they’ve been drawing each other’s blood with needles and sharing it to deepen their bond.

Dean lies back on a grave, drawing Leandra down beside him. They wait, holding hands as their last sunset comes creeping. Shadows stretch. On the horizon, earth colors of red and yellow give way to metallic purples and pulsing blacks. Darkness caresses daylight into oblivion.

Leandra sits up. “You hear it?”
Dean joins her. “Yes. They’re coming!”

A humming seeps from the air. The night sky blossoms, as if god has set off fireworks meant only for them. Brilliant scarlets and muted maroons build a backdrop against which gold and white droplets spray. An image of a great raptor appears, striking from ebony space.

Dean closes his eyes against the glory. “The Angel!” he shouts.
Leandra says nothing. Her eyes are open; they bleed crystal tears with razor edges.

The angel lands with a snap of crimson pinions. It is legion; its eyes are moonlets.

“No,” Dean pleads.
“We seek forever,” Leandra counters.

The angel wraps its wings around the lovers, containing them within its umbra. From a spider’s mouth of chelicerae, the being extrudes a single fang upon which gleams a venom-pearl. Leandra licks the pearl. It bursts on her tongue into oily rivulets of purple, blue and green. Dean will not open his eyes but she shares the venom through a kiss. Spasms strike them both. They jerk and writhe, convulse and scream. Limbs twist; bones snap. From human, they are reborn. Into nothing human.

Leandra recovers first. Her eyes are wider now. They see the electromagnetic spectrum in infinite shades. Her ears are opened. They hear the beat of hearts across miles, the scurry of beetles under her feet, the twisting of worms beneath the earth.

“Thank you,” she says.

The angel holds out a tentacle and pulls her to her feet. She feels a weight at her shoulders, the fast-growing wings that will give her the sky. Laughing, she turns to her lover. Dean lies still, as if with exhaustion. She calls his name. He opens his eyes; they are ruins of rot. She cries out and drops to her knees, touching his face. He mewls from a mouth of blackened tongues and the stumps of broken teeth.

With tears, Leandra looks up at the angel. “What happened?” she pleads. “Help him!”

“The venom did not take,” the angel replies. “This is as far as he goes. We’ll have to leave him for the beast.”

“No!” Leandra protests. “It was supposed to be both of us. Together. Forever.”

No mercy in the angel’s voice as it speaks again. “You’ll find better lovers where we’re going. Come. Or stay. Your choice.”

Leandra glances at Dean. He doesn’t seem to recognize her. He grunts like a toad as his broken limbs scratch in the soil as if to burrow. Leandra stands. Her tears are of sorrow, and of joy, as the angel and the once-a-woman rise and arrow toward the portals of heaven. Behind them in the dirt, Dean digs his slow way to Hell.

∼ Charles Gramlich

Ripper’s Street

August 24, 2022August 8, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 6 Comments

Softly settles East End fog, thick with industry’s residue. It leaves an oily coat on the skin,

plays games with the vision. Forms appear and vanish in the mist, the stink of piss and rotten meat, slimy creatures of dark alleyways. These streets, the Ripper’s playground.

Me being young, and with no binding ties, I once went slumming with the lads. Begging favors of Miss Mary, we taking turns with her to satisfy our bursting loins. And that she did with competence, such was her service for our coins. When we were done, we bade good night and off she went into that dense Whitechapel fog.

Years passed, and I’m a doctor now, with a different take on whores. They’re still corrupting honest men, giving them most dreadful maladies. I should know, being one among them on that certain night. Now I walk these midnight streets alone, carrying my own assorted tools. There’s many a strumpet up ahead, for a trained man skillful with the blade.

∼ Marge Simon

Pieces of Me

August 17, 2022July 26, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

It began with a finger. I relished the pain from the first slice. Warm blood ran down my palm as I pushed the blade deeper. Soon the digit left my body. I watched it fall with a pulsing vision of loss through waves of pain. But it invigorated me. Inspired me. I had to keep going.

Each additional cut gave me strength to endure the agony until it became pleasure. What I identified as a compulsion quickly became addiction. I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to.

With few fingers and toes left, I went for more non-vital parts. The feeling of sawing through the cartilage of my nose roused heavenly sensation. Both ears undone felt divine. With each new loss of flesh, I felt more free, more alive. With each peel of the surface from my limbs, a burden was lifted.

It took time and effort, but eventually I severed one foot. As I started on its counterpart, the front door opened and in walked my wife. She wasn’t due home until late. I thought surprise would have been our matched reactions. But my eyes looked to hers, and hers to mine. We spoke no words—none were necessary.

She gently took the razor-sharp tool from my hand and began to work on herself.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Live While You Can

July 27, 2022July 26, 2022 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 5 Comments

Sarah sat at the reception desk. She was on night duty and was alone. The night was hot, stuffy and the air conditioning was barely functioning. The breeze from the open window was very welcome.

The area was called ‘the one-way ward’ by some of the staff. It was the wing of the oncology department where the hopeless cases received palliative care to ease their last days. The name wasn’t meant to be cruel; it was an attempt to inject some gallows humor, to lift the somber atmosphere.

There were eight private and semi-private rooms in the area, all within easy access of the main desk. It was an easy job. The patients were drugged to the eyeballs, heavily sedated. They slept away their last few hours.

Sarah’s eyes closed without her even being aware she was falling asleep. The book she was reading slipped from her fingers and landed with a soft bump on the desk.

She woke with a start. Glancing at the computer on the desk, she realized fifteen minutes had passed. She checked the monitor. No alerts.

A man walked out of one of the semi-private rooms. Sarah knew there were two teenage girls in that room. Her hand flashed to the security call button.

“Don’t,” he said.

Her hand froze. All she could do was stare at the man.

“Come with me.”

She rose and walked towards him. Her mind was screaming; this was insanity, he was going to kill her and do terrible, unspeakable things to the helpless patients. She couldn’t stop herself, some external force was driving her legs. She stood beside him, unwillingly compliant.

“Walk with me.”

He headed into the next room. She followed, still trying to force her legs to move towards the reception desk and safety.

The two patients were both men in their forties. Yellow skin was stretched over cadaverous faces. They lay, eyes closed, on their death beds, surrounded by technology that was unable to save them. The drugs kept them pain free, that was all. The chemotherapy, the radiotherapy hadn’t worked for them. Modern medicine was making huge inroads into treating cancer, but there were still people for whom no treatment had worked.

The man walked up to the nearest bed. He stroked the forehead of the patient.

“Dream, my brother.”

The man in the bed, still unconscious, suddenly smiled. His eyelids flickered and his mouth twitched.

The man moved to the next patient and did the same. The patient responded in the same way.

“Follow me.”

Sarah followed.

Her companion moved from room to room, touching each patient on the forehead speaking the same words. Each time the patient responded in the same way.

They returned to the reception area. Sarah felt herself released from whatever hold he’d had over her. She felt weak, her muscles ached.

“You are now free to call security.”

Sarah didn’t.

“Who are you? What did you do to those patients?”

“Gave them life.”

“Life? They’re dying.”

“The life they would have lived, had they not been here. In their minds, they are living, falling in love, having children…working, travelling, laughing, crying. Everything they are going to miss.”

Sarah believed him. She had seen the patients’ faces.

“Who are you?”

“I’m cursed. I’m blessed. This is my life, my part to play.”

Sarah, a believer, whispered.

“Are you an angel?”

The man smiled.

“Angel or demon, it does not matter. I am here. That is all that matters.”

He walked out the doors of the ward.

“See to your patients.”

Sarah did as she was told, moving between the rooms, checking each patient carefully. They were still now, but it wasn’t the stillness of sedation. It was the stillness of death. Each one, every single one had died. Sarah supposed in their dream state they had lived full, rich lives and died, surrounded by family and friends. Her unknown visitor had given them quite a gift, but he’d also given her quite the problem. How was she going to explain how the entire ward of patients had died all at exactly the same time?

∼ RJ Meldrum

Pain Relief

July 6, 2022July 4, 2022 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

“You think you know about pain? I know about pain.”

He held up his palms. They were lined with dirt and chapped. His nails were framed in flakes of dead skin, ending in black crescents.

“You have dirty hands, but that isn’t the same thing as pain. Just take a bath. You don’t need my help for that.” I took my time unscrewing the cap off the bottle and let it drop to the ground. His mouth twisted as he sucked his bottom lip, thinking.

“It’s because of it. People who don’t know pain don’t be dirty like this.”

I didn’t respond and took a drink from the bottle. His hands dropped back to his lap.

“Why do you want to know about my pain anyways? You ain’t gonna do anything about it.” His eyes fixated on the Jack and I let the light catch it so it shone amber.

“I can’t help you if I don’t believe you.” I tipped the bottle again, letting a trickle run down my chin. I liked the desperate look in his eyes as his world narrowed and licked my lips before wiping the drops away with the back of my hand. “Good stuff.”

He licked his own lips in subconscious pantomime and pushed layers of a tattered sleeve up, exposing a forearm latticed in scars. The skin was less grimy there.

“Here’s some pain for you. Everytime I lose something, I keep the memory in my flesh. I cut myself,” he said. “That’s a lot of memories.” He ran his fingers across one of the bigger lines.

“Lots of people cut themselves. It doesn’t mean your pain is worse.” I pulled my phone out and checked the time. “What do you cut yourself with?”

“I got a knife. You gotta have a knife ‘round here. I’ll show you.” He pawed at his neck with stiff fingers and pulled at a string tied at his neck. A decent sized hunting knife in a worn black sheath was dangling at the end of it. I held my hand out, letting the liquid slosh against the glass as I did.

“Can I see it?”

He sucked his lip in again, thinking, before he pulled the string over his head and placed it in my hand.

“Now you give me the bottle like you said.”

“I didn’t say I was giving you anything. I said I would help you with your pain.”

“A drink sure goes a long way to help. I got arthritis from the cold nights and a good drink is all that makes it go.”

I cradled the Jack in the crook of my arm and slid the knife free. The blade was hash marked with scratches. The tip was snapped off.

“So what did you lose to make so many scars?”

“Everything! I lost everything I ever had. Shitty parents, shitty wife took the kids, shitty friends… I tried to make something with my life but I got backstabbed every time. Nothing left to do but cut reminders and try to get on.”

Sitting on the greasy back step of a restaurant and smelling like piss, he didn’t look like he was getting on.

“And cutting yourself helps?”

He looked at the blade in my hand.

“Not like the booze does.”

I held the bottle out and swished the contents before I handed it over to him.

“I knew you weren’t gonna just tease me. I knew you were gonna help.” He took a deep swig, sloshing it around in his mouth before swallowing it.

I dropped the sheath and it landed at his feet, the string spreading serpentine on the stained pavement. He took another swig and bent over to pick it up. I bent over too, above him, close enough for his body stink to invade my nose.

The knife pushed in to the small hollow that hid where his shoulder and neck connected. It slid in, already familiar with this flesh–a final memory that would never scar. He fell forward on one knee, propped up by the bottle, before he collapsed. Blood and booze mingled into the cracks beneath him.

“You were doing it wrong,” I said.

~ Angela Yuriko Smith

The Last Reading

June 29, 2022June 14, 2022 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 5 Comments

She gently traced the lines on his hand with her thumb. “I see deceit and malice,” she said accusingly, looking into his eyes with her unseeing, milky white ones. She then added, “And a disregard for others.”

The palm reader, Alice May, then rose and gingerly made her way to the cupboard on the far side of the room. She gently cast her hands over the trinkets that adorned the old, oak surface. Some were merely ornamental, decorative pieces that she had acquired over many years of her life. Some were more precious to her, and much more valuable.
She sighed, put her hand to her heart and then returned to the reading.

“When you first came to me, I felt something in your lines that confused me. Each time you returned, everything became clearer,” she continued as a tear ran down her cheek.
All Peter could do was look wide eyed with a muffled scream back at the old lady.

He’d been coming for readings for weeks. Each time he’d helped himself to a bit of jewellery. This time he’d sat in the chair in her dusty old den, drank the usual cup of tea that she always offered, but this time had fallen into a deep sleep.

“I don’t think you have a good bone in your body,” she continued, as she felt each line, each intersection on his palm. “I fear you may be a lost cause.”

She stood again and threw the severed appendage into the open fire. Peter tried to scream. His mouth was sealed tight with crude stitching, his legs tied tightly to those of the chair. His wrists were nailed to thick wooden tabletop that he had sat at for the last few weeks of his visits to this mystic witch.

“On the other hand, maybe you’re not all that bad. Maybe you deserve another chance,” she said.

She fumbled for the hacksaw beside the chair, felt her way up to his other arm and started to grind through skin, flesh, muscle and finally bone.

His eyes rolled in his head, his pupils widened in pure, electrifying agony as she began to remove the other hand.
After some effort it detached from his wrist. She then sat down, turned it over, and began to give him a second reading for free. Deep within her, she hoped to find a line that would give her reason to spare him. But, even as she began reading it, she shook her head, solemnly. All Peter could do was shake his head violently from one side to the other. His muffled pleas for forgiveness went unheard by Alice.

~ Ian Sputnik

Wizard and Waif

June 15, 2022June 13, 2022 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 3 Comments

Passing through the woods one dark and dreary day, an old wizard found a shivering waif sitting dejectedly beneath a tree alongside the road.

“Child,” the old man said. “Where are your parents?”

“Gone, Sir,” replied the waif, who appeared to be no more than ten or eleven.

“Gone where?”

The youth shrugged. “They sent me to gather wood for our campfire, but when I came back they were gone. I don’t know where.”

“Well, perhaps we can find them,” the wizard said, though he did not really believe it likely. This forest was infamous as a place where unwanted children were abandoned.

The wizard held out his hand. “Come with me, Lad. I’ll help you.”

Without hesitation, the waif rose and took the man’s hand. His grip was strong, and he was smiling. The wizard smiled back.

Knowing it would be dark soon, the wizard did not lead the waif far before stopping to camp.

“Do you want me to get wood?” the boy asked in a frightened voice.

The wizard smiled again. “Not at all, lad. You merely need to sit and watch.”

And as the boy watched, the wizard conjured up a swirling emerald campfire out of nothing but some glittering dust scattered on the ground. The fake fire crackled and spat like true flame. It gave off needed heat. The boy scooted close and held his hands out gratefully.

“It’s wonderful,” he told the wizard.

“Yes,” the wizard replied as he took a bundle off his back and drew out a packet of dried meat. He offered some to the boy and ate a few bites himself. He’d elected to start his fire near where a large, square stone rose from the soil. With a few groans and the crick/crack of old bones, he seated himself with his back to this stone. When he was comfortable, he found the waif looking at him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I…I was…wondering. I’ve heard…stories about this wood. People say bad things live here.”

The wizard chuckled. “No need to worry.” He lifted his hands and waved them about while murmuring strange words. The air around the little campsite began to glow a faint green. The color deepened until the two sat within a sphere of glittering light.

“There. Evil cannot cross that barrier. We’re perfectly safe in here.”

“No monsters?” the waif asked.

“Nope.”

“Not even werewolves and vampires?”

“Not even them.”

The youth sighed and relaxed. He finished his dried meat, then shivered and scooted even closer to the fire.

“Cold, small one?” the Wizard asked.

“A little.”

The wizard smiled and patted the earth beside him. “Come sit close to me and we can share our warmth.”

The boy hesitated a long moment, but then rose and moved to sit next to the wizard. The old man put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and drew him close. The lad rested his head on the wizard’s chest.

As the old man idly rubbed the youth’s back, the lad looked up at him. “I just have one more question,” he said.

“Yes?”

The waif smiled: “What if the evil is already inside the sphere?”

~ Charles Gramlich

The Castrato’s Parade

June 8, 2022May 5, 2022 ~ Marge Simon ~ 5 Comments

The eunuchs parade for rights, today. Legions of dour men marching in clipped unison on a cold November afternoon with neither bands nor majorettes, nor clowns in little wagons. Their leader is out in front astride a white ox.

You turn to me, a question in your eyes, but I put a finger on your lips. Silently, we watch them proceed down Broadway until they diminish from view. Onlookers unify in a mighty sigh and return to go about their business.

Later we discuss this in bed, my arms embracing your shoulders, your legs twined in mine.

“Was it to make a statement, to gain recognition, acceptance?”

“I suppose it was,” I reply. “We started all this, didn’t we, Flora, decades ago? Why do you frown?”

“I guess they expect equal rights, too. It won’t happen in our lifetime, love!” I say, pulling your hands to encircle my breasts. We kiss with tenderness as only women do.

I lie awake, afraid to fall asleep. When we ascended to world leadership, we agreed males must be irrevocably controlled. But even so, those austere faces continue to invade my dreams with the force of their neutered dissent.

~ Marge Simon

The Change

June 1, 2022May 23, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

One arm lay in a pool of blood. My blood. The other grasps for it, reaches with needing fingers. They want to keep what is part of them. Part of me.

I know I’m in shock. The ping in my ears and lack of pain brings a strange clarity. Time slows. I see the carnage around me and watch, not in awe or disgust, but indifference. With calm I walk to the first person I see and beat him to death with my own severed arm. I whip his bruising face with the bloodied stump. I shove my radial bone down his throat and break his ribs with my boots.

I know I’ll bleed out if I don’t do something. That knowledge sits at the forefront of my mind, but emotion refuses to connect, urgency has been halted by whatever has changed inside. I know things weren’t always this way. But I don’t remember what they were before. And it doesn’t matter.

I walk past the crunched metal and burning rubber. Screams surround me but I pay no mind. My eyes are fixed ahead. I drop my severed arm. Blood no longer flows. Consciousness has not faded. I am alive.

Veins extend from my stump. They grow and lengthen, intertwine and stretch. They are as alive as I. A wide-eyed man in the street attracts my attention. I reach for him, take hold. His struggle is futile. I taste his insides as he’s torn apart and consumed. I hunger for more.

~ Lee Andrew Forman

As Long As It Lasts

May 18, 2022May 12, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

I know it sounds corny, but I believe life has a purpose. Really, I do. I believe that I—all of us—have a reason for being here, a reason for living. I don’t need to know what mine is. All I know is that one day it will come and it will go, and with it will go my need to live.

I test this every now and then, to see if I’ve outlived my use. The first time was with a pill bottle, but I’ve gotten more creative since. Five times I’ve tested this and five times I’ve survived.

Guess that means I’m still useful.

Hard to believe it as I make my way through the busy streets, just one of many ants in this hill. It’s times like this my philosophy carries me through. Every moment could be my moment—the one that completes me, opens the door, sets me free. All around me is potential. It gives life dimension for as long as it lasts.

As I ride the bus back from yet another eight hours spent by the burger fryer, I can’t help but wonder if today was my day. Maybe I did my part by holding the door for that girl, or by smiling at the gentleman on the corner, or by offering my seat to the grandmotherly woman on my morning bus. Every part counts, and maybe I’ve paid my dues.

I hear the moan of braking bus tires and get up at the all-too-familiar sight of my stop. I wave to the driver, but my mind is elsewhere, thinking of what the test should be. I try to change it up each time. After a while, it becomes an art of sorts, but that’s the kind of detail I pride myself on.

Lost in these thoughts, I barely even notice her until I’m almost past the alley. It’s the click that gets me. I stop in my tracks, expecting someone to come out asking for my wallet or my watch or something, but nothing happens. I glance down the alleyway and see her. It quickly becomes clear that it’s not my money she’s after.

I relax a bit, and see her look at me for the first time. She’s young enough—early twenties, no doubt—and not bad-looking. Mind you, she would probably look even better if she wasn’t holding a gun to her head.

“Guess you’re gonna tell me to back off,” she says after a long moment. I can see her grip tighten, and I almost laugh at the idea.

“Nah, go ahead.” I step back, cross my arms. “I’m kind of curious, actually.”

She snorts. “Morbid son of a bitch, aren’t ya?”

“Guess you could say that. Not every day you get a street-side show. Seems like a strange place for it.”

“Not for me. Thought I’d leave him with something to remember.” She gestures up to a window in the decrepit apartment building beside us. “Maybe I can get his attention while he’s still inside that bitch of his. Give her something to really scream about.”

“That works.”

I wait. I watch her. She watches me.

“You’re really not going to stop me?” she asks at last.

“No point,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve got a theory, of sorts. Call it fate if you like, but it all comes down to a fifty-fifty chance. Either it’ll work or it won’t. Either you’ve got a reason to live or you don’t. Not my call.”

“You really are sick, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, but it keeps me going. Here, how many bullets do you have in there?”

She pauses. “One.”

I stretch out a hand, slowly. “May I?”

I can see she wants to say no, but her curiosity is stronger. She gives me the gun. I unset it and spin the cylinder. Before she can say anything I cock it again, raise it to my head and pull the trigger.

Nothing.

I shrug. “See? Guess that means I keep going.”

The girl is visibly shaken as I hand the gun back to her. She’s lost some of her initial verve, but still cocks the gun and lifts it to her head. She bites her lip as she pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

I give a small smile. “Guess you keep going, too.”

The effort seems to have drained the last of her resolve. She almost drops the gun as she pushes it into my hands. “Thank you,” she says. She’s crying now.

I’m about to reply, but she’s already gone. Running from the alley, the building, the gun. Running to something more. As I watch her go, I wonder what her purpose is. Why she keeps on living. Why any of us keep on living.

The weight of the gun returns me to the present. I look down at it with some surprise. I think of the girl, of all that was and wasn’t.

I smile and lift the gun for one last test.

~ Miriam H. Harrison