Chalk and Cheese

April 17, 2024April 16, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 6 Comments

Pamela laid out the breakfast bowls on the kitchen table as her youngest son, Jason read quietly. His older brother, Michael was busy running up and down the upstairs corridor screaming like a banshee whilst pushing his favourite toy car along the walls. Jason was 6, his older brother 8 but the way Michael acted it was though his maturity had stagnated or even started going backwards.

“Michael!” his mother shouted. “Stop that racket and come down here for breakfast.”

“No, I won’t.” came the defiant reply.

Pamela dropped her head in frustration. She looked across at Jason and smiled. Then she frowned. He was such a good boy but hated that a brief thought had crossed her mind. She loved them both equally, but Michael made it so difficult at times, and she loathed those fleeting moments of favouritism.

Jason was inquisitive and helpful. Michael was a tornado bringing mayhem and disaster on whichever located he visited. If ever Pamela wondered out loud what the time was, Jason would run to the nearest clock in order he could furnish his mother with the answer. If ever she was rushing about because she wasn’t sure what time the bus to the shops was due, she need only ask, and Jason would retrieve the timetable from the kitchen drawer to find out for her.

Michael had become strangely quiet, eerily so, to be precise. She made her way up the stairs to discover that he had raided her makeup drawer. He had used her lipstick to write swear words all over the wallpaper. Talcum powder was also covering the landing carpet. She screamed.

Jason called up to his mum in fright, asking what the matter was. Pamela marched over to Michael’s bedroom door and attempted to enter. He had pushed something in front of it and refused to budge.

“Look at the state of this place. Why would you do that?” She shouted.

“It wasn’t me, it was Jason,” came the lame reply.

With that she turned and walked sullenly back down the stairs, tears in her eyes. She was at her wits ends.

“What’s happened?” Jason asked, his eyes full of genuine concern.
His mother just shrugged. Jason’s eyes were so full of love and caring that her anger had briefly ebbed away.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s just your brother’s made one hell of a mess. God knows why he misbehaves. I just don’t know what’s in his heads. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to your father when he gets home.”
She gently stroked his hair and told him that he’d best get ready for school. He nodded with a smile.

After dinner, when they’d finally got the kids to bed, Stephen, her husband, and Pamela sat down in the lounge to discuss the worsening problem. They discussed getting a child psychologist involved. The school had suggested as much as his behaviour there was no better than at home. They decided to sleep on the idea and talk about it in the morning after a good night’s sleep.

Pamela woke with a start. Their bedroom door was open, and the faint silhouette of a child was visible in the door frame. Stephen sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.

“What’s up sport, have a nightmare?” He asked while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason walked forward into the light and held his hand out. Pamela turned her bedside light on as well so she could see better. He opened his hand to show them.

“It’s just goo,” he said.

Stephen and Pamela looked upon their child, fighting back the vomit and screams. In front of them stood their 6-year-old son, his father’s hammer in one hand, his other containing fragments of skull and lumps of fleshy tissue. Blood dripped through his fingers onto their bedroom carpet.

Pamela broke down first and began to scream. Stephen couldn’t even move or make a sound.
Jason looked horrified by his mum’s response.

“B-b-but you wanted to know what was in his head,” he stammered. He looked at his father, and then back to his mother. “Mum, you wanted to know. You asked me” Jason began to sob. He let the hammer fall from his hand, and then the remains of his brother’s head and brain from the other. “You asked me, you asked me,” he repeated over and over again as his sobs turned into loud cries.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Lord of the Mountain

April 10, 2024March 31, 2024 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

With no place left for me among the people, I fled to the mountain, my face wet with tears. Better to be alone than tormented. But on the fourth night in the forest, I heard God growling in the darkness and knew I was saved.

I climbed from my tent and stood swaying under the midnight moon. For days I’d eaten only mushrooms and drunk rainwater trapped in puddles and stumps. Sleep had been elusive. I was tired and emptied of everything inside of me from four days ago. And yet, I felt peace for the first time in my life.

God snuffled amid the trees beyond my fire. I heard him cracking sticks and digging at hollow logs. I heard his incisors sharpening themselves as he chewed at some sacrament forbidden to me. I knelt and prayed. I asked his forgiveness; I asked his love. He did not answer

Perhaps, I thought, my fire kept him away. I doused it to blackness. I lay on my back and spread my arms as if crucified, opening myself in invitation. And God came to me. He wore a hair shirt like the ancient saints; he smelled of cedar and hot sweat; his breath was full of meat and blood.

I lay stiff and still. God sniffed my body, between my legs, up my chest, across my face. His tongue was rough when he kissed me. And I put the knife in his throat and ripped it across.

He did not cry out, not with his windpipe severed. His attempt at a roar birthed itself in a dark and sticky rheum that flooded my mouth. The great spirit reared onto his legs and clawed silver streaks in the ebon sky, then collapsed on top of me. His weight was like the kingdom of heaven. I thought I would die from lack of breath.

But I did not die. I lay for a long while beneath him, until the warmth of his body cooled. Then I peeled off his shaggy coat and pulled it around my own shoulders. It leaped and twitched with life. In past times I might have named that life as fleas and ticks, but I knew now they were angels, which live always on the body of God. And so now they lived on me. For I had ascended to my rightful place.

Far down the mountain below me, I saw the lights of the village I’d fled so recently. It made a place of emptiness, of great loneliness. Just as, a few days before, I had been lonely myself amid its crowds.

I took off the ex-God’s hands and fitted them over mine, with their long, curved black claws. I pulled his sharp white teeth and placed them in my own mouth, though I had to cut my jaws wider to accommodate their majesty.

I would go to the village now, clad in glory. And they would believe. They would know how foolish they’d been not to recognize the God inside me. For that, they must be punished.

∼ Charles Gramlich

The Shadow

April 3, 2024February 25, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

The light turns red at the exact second I’m about to step out onto the crosswalk, forcing me to retract my foot as the stream of vehicles starts moving. A sigh escapes my lips.

It’s a mild inconvenience at best, but today, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of frustration simmering inside my mind as I stand and wait for the light to turn green. A half-remembered nightmare about being stalked leading to a lack of sleep would make even the most patient man grumpy. My mood’s been foul since I woke up on the hard floor instead of my soft bed. Not to mention the weather in the city at present, which makes me wish I were already in the classroom snoozing for a bit before the first class begins.

My body shivers against my will as a sudden chill creeps down my spine, partly due to the biting wind that sweeps through the air and partly due to the weight of an intense gaze coming from the park behind me, poking at the back of my head.

Hesitantly, I turn around to locate the source, and there it is. Standing at the same spot it’s occupied for the past year, the black dog is no longer the skinny, jumpy thing that would scurry away whenever I approached it to offer a treat. Now, its larger, darker frame is upright and stiff, looking like a shadow that blends into the shade beneath its usual canopy. I can’t clearly see its eyes beneath all the fur and thick shade, but I can feel its distinct gaze upon me, focused and unflinching even when challenged. There are a few people exercising or sitting around in the park, but nobody seems to care about it beside me, and it appears to care about no-one except for me.

The dog’s gaze intensifies into a glare as it sees me watching, and I almost take a step back as though being closer to oncoming traffic is better than being near this unusual creature. The only break from the blackness of its being is a small strip of red that decorates its collar, whose ember-like design seems to wave and shift each time I blink.

I must be seeing things, I muse to myself. It’s barely a quarter past six in the morning, and I haven’t even eaten yet. I need a break from life for a while.

Shaking my head, I once again take in the sight of the dog in its entirety, still standing, still staring, still invisible to everyone else. What breed is that, I wonder? Whatever it is, it sure looks impressive, but who in their right mind would leave such an expensive dog unattended in public like this?

Say what you will about how beautiful this city is or how cultured its residents are, there are always dark spots around, not just in the hidden corners or in the snaking alleyways. For two years I’ve lived here, and many times, I’ve caught glimpses of the shadow lurking behind the alluring glamour, at the deeds done to the creatures struggling to survive in this sprawling concrete jungle. I’ve seen my fair share of roadkills’ carcasses left alone until the remains, dismembered or flattened, merged into the street, of strays being kicked round by some rowdy kids or disgruntled adults chancing upon a convenient outlet for their emotions, and of multiple pets being kidnapped in broad daylight, cameras be damned, which ultimately became yet another dish on some old drunkards’ dining tables. Only the missing posters haphazardly glued to some random utility poles proved that they once existed.

Another wave of shiver wrecks my being as a memory resurfaces, unbidden. I was forced to eat dog meat a year ago by my relatives back home, and I’ve sworn to never go near it again for as long as I live. I know how city people dote on their pets these days, so I find it hard to believe that the owner of this particular dog would be so careless with such a pricey pet.

Maybe the owner’s sitting in the park somewhere? I ponder, locked in a restarted staring contest with the silent creature until a wayward gust of wind blows my hair into my eyes, and I blink. The shape of the collar seemingly changes again. Did it just grow smaller? I squint, uncertainty and curiosity clashing with one another in my mind until I’m dragged back to reality by my own growling stomach.

Right, hunger and sleepiness. I need to have breakfast before the first class starts. Otherwise, I won’t be able to stay awake, and the exams are coming up. I can’t afford to ask my parents for more money to retake the failed subjects. I can’t handle any more of their quiet gazes and lengthened sighs. A yawn tears through my restraint, and I let my gaze travel back to the traffic light.

Three. Two. One. Green.

I step forward. The street is still empty, and the few pedestrians behind me don’t seem to be in any hurry, content to immerse themselves in their own worlds and phones. The upbeat music in my earphones continues to play as I walk, more than halfway across the crossroad, heedless of the happenings around me. I can feel the cold wind blowing against my face. I can taste the fresh air filling my lungs. I can lose myself in the beats of my favorite song as I think about what to eat.

And all of a sudden, my body explodes into blinding agony.

My little world shatters as my body becomes weightless, flying through the air for a brief moment before crashing back down to the ground. All at once, my limbs grow heavy, and every attempt to wriggle them causes the pain to double. Black spots gradually invade my vision as I try to speak, only for some meaningless noises to trickle out of my constricted throat. A short distance away, I can spot the outline of a car, its misshapen front stuck to the deformed guardrails.

Buzzing noises surround me as my vision narrows to pinpricks. The black spots fuse into a wave of darkness, swiftly encroaching from the edges. And within that fleeting juncture of clarity, I see the black dog again, materializing from the shadow shrouding my eyes, its blood-red orbs blazing like an unstoppable wildfire. The beast advances through the gathered crowd, unobstructed, and glares down at me. The ember-like collar around its neck is no more.

Lying there, I can do nothing except let out a single choked moan before the looming creature, either snarling hungrily or grinning grotesquely with its fiery fangs exposed, sinks its teeth into my flesh, from which my shackled soul is ripped out.

I’m only afforded a few seconds to watch as my crumpled body stops twitching, a discarded puppet with all its strings cut, and becomes a bloody stain on the street for people to point at and record. The anguished screams floating through the hissing wind fall on deaf ears as the growling monster drags my thrashing spirit toward its shadowed den beneath its canopy in the park. I flail and wail, claw and beg, curse and cry, all in vain as the pool of shadow expands around my soul, its tendrils clinging onto me and slowly devouring me, bit by bit, until everything’s at last drowned in a void of pure black, beyond sight, beyond sound, and beyond all hope for salvation.

∼ Ngo Binh Anh Khoa

In the Presence of Aramanius

March 20, 2024February 22, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 1 Comment

Albert’s apartment neighbor Karl wore a big ratty grin. He banged on Albert’s walls, just when he knew Albert wanted to nap, or use the backscratcher. The whiskery guy must have his ear to the drywall, Albert thought, to know exactly when he’d be home, or wanted a quiet moment. Karl was intelligent, just like a rat. Albert complained to the landlord, Bald Jose, and Bald Jose said “Karl tells me the only noisy thing he’s done in the past month is drop a few cantaloupes.”

“He’s a liar,” Albert said. “He’s laughing at me, there’s no cantaloupe rinds in his garbage.”

Albert’s apartment was his sanctuary. Everyone out in the world moved too fast, always staring, he saw the craziness in the eyes, the disdain behind their faces. Their rolling tongues held back spit and sarcasm. Now even inside he couldn’t relax, could never find stillness, because of Karl.

All Albert wanted: to lie in peace on his bed, unmoving in beautiful lonesome quiet, and recall the best moments in his life. He craved the emptiness of space, the dropping away of stimuli. No thrashing around tormented by Karl and the hellish other people in the world. Just the thoughts of the girl he almost kissed forty-five years ago back in high school, or the time he sang karaoke at the night clubs and everyone clapped and he got first prize. Albert popped another sedative. Almost out of that prescription.

“Jealous,” said Albert. “All jealous of my singing.”

He would sing in his room, as loud as he could, just to show Karl he wouldn’t be intimidated. He was never happier than when he sang. A simple way to be happy, he thought. But so many people didn’t want him to be that way. They wanted him to suffer.

He checked under his bed. He’d smelled a strange odour the past few days and thought it might be fir cones. He took his broom and tried to pull some cones out. A banging sounded from behind his fridge.

“Damn you, Karl!” Albert yelled, and turned up his T. V.

Mighty Mouse was on. A tiny mouse with the strength of Godzilla. The rodent irritated Albert with his high, squeaky voice.

“There is no way a mouse could lift an entire building,” Albert thought.

He changed to the wildlife channel, but it was way too quiet, something about grasshoppers. He started to sing, as loud as he could. Karl’s wall kicking stopped. Albert sighed with relief.

Time to be still again. He turned off the T. V. and lay back on his tiny, folded cot with the sheets arranged just so. This world might be a mess, but Albert’s sheets were always neat.

He felt his eyes close as the sedatives kicked in. He thought of Connie, the girl he almost kissed. One of the few things of beauty in his miserable life.

He opened his eyes to an overwhelming scent of evergreen, and there on the floor wriggled a giant rodent… rat, beaver, spider, some kind of combination. Eight wiggly paws upturned and the body rolling around on the floor, smelling like a fir tree.

“You have such beautiful splintery hardwood!” cried the creature, in a high pitched, squeaky voice.

Albert watched the critter spin. Perhaps it would go away like a dream and leave him alone. But no, it kept rotating around and yelling. Albert flipped back his curtains. Across the open courtyard Bald Jose’s bathroom window lay open, the landlord rubbing his face with a towel and laughing across at him. Albert shut the curtain fast, his heart pounding with fury, and rolled back to the floor view. The creature was still there, chirping and spinning.

Albert addressed it.

“Are you the one who stuffed pine needles under my bed?”

“Nothing to do with that.”

“Then why are you here in my room? Did Karl send you?”

The creature stopped thrashing. Its white-skinned, triangular shaped muzzle upturned and the red mouth yapped “I’m actually here to help you with your neighbor problems.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I don’t like Karl either. He’s got it in for us wall creatures. All that pounding.”

“What’s a wall creature?”
The mouth that split the muzzle smiled, showing little razor teeth.

“We’re the ones who keep the pipes running, the electricity on, the gas burning. Ever wonder why your bath never runs over? Because we’re there to turn the taps off.”

The creature cackled and abruptly stood up, balancing on a thick tail, like a beaver’s. The strange being seemed about three feet high, with the ears of a mouse, for sure, but eight tiny spider legs and a long white snout ending in a thick black nose similar to a Labrador dog.

“You can get rid of Karl?” asked Albert.

“Sure. He’s always banging, right?”

“Yeah.”

“With your co-operation, we can turn that pounding right back on him, send the negative vibrations up to his heart and stop that heart on a dime. All you have to do is feed me from time to time. And maybe sing a few karaoke songs.”

Albert thought of Karl kicking the wall and dropping dead to the ground. A smile came to his face, though part of him thought there was something wrong with that smile.

“What do you eat?”

“Cantaloupe.”

The beast began cackling again.

“How did a big rodent like you even get in here?”

“I’m not a rodent,” said the creature. “You can call me Arimanius.”

Arimanius flopped onto his stomach and poked at a tiny hole in the floor. As he poked with four of his spindly long legs, that hole became larger and larger. Armianius stuck his snout in there and opened his mouth, until his mouth was as wide as a kitchen table. The hole stretched to show the pipes and wires and two by four studs between Albert’s wall and Karl’s place.

“Come on in,” said Arimanius, wriggling forward into the gap. “Check out the inner apartment sanctum.”

“There’s no way I’m going in there. It’s probably some kind of trap.”

Just as he spoke, a pounding rose from the other side of the wall.

“Looks like Karl’s on the torment trail again,” Arimanius stated. “He’s upping the ante now, because he knows you won’t do a darned thing.”

The pounding increased in volume and tempo,

“Boots from hell!” Albert shouted.

He felt the banging in his own head now. He leaped from his bed, ran past Arimanius and tried to turn on the T. V., but he couldn’t find the switch.

“Look,” said the creature. “Karl’s foot’s almost coming through the gyprock.”

Indeed, Albert could see the wall buckling here and there.

“You want me to start drinking again!” Albert yelled. “That’s not gonna happen, you monster!”

“Just say the word,” Aramanius’ squeaking could be heard even above the pounding and the T. V. “And I’ll send the negative vibes into Karl’s heart!”

“I say the word,” Albert said. “Stop that beating!”

“On your orders,” said Aramanius, “But you have to sing loud while I conjure up those killer vibes.”

Albert opened his mouth. He started with some R. E. M., “Losing My Religion.”

“That’s not loud enough,” said Aramanius.

Albert continued with a number by Celine Dion, for which he’d won first prize at the “Super K”
Karaoke competition in Lubbock, Texas many years before.

“Louder!” said Aramanius, who was yelling himself now. “Let’s hear you do the scream from Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

Aramanius waved his eight legs around like a whirlwind, screaming the Zeppelin words along with Albert.

Albert’s head thundered now, even louder than the walls, in time with Karl’s kicking and Aramanius’ yelling. Albert caterwauled at the top of his lungs, and the lights went out. Aramanius vanished, and Albert felt his body falling, back and back and back into his beautiful neat, blanketed bed, falling into a deep and peaceful silence.

He awakened with daylight streaming in his window. He wanted to close the curtain, but his body wouldn’t move. He lay there on his back with all the noise around him. He felt a kicking on his chest. Looking down, he saw Aramanius. The creature was now about the size of a teacup, but the feet felt like sledgehammers. Aramanius bared its teeth, danced and laughed “I was working for Karl, you fool, didn’t you get the clue about the cantaloupe?” He grinned some more. “Karl wasn’t crazy about your singing, but he can keep a beat.”

Albert lay there. Frozen hands, numb feet. His vocal chords couldn’t stir to scream.

“You’ll be still from now on,” Aramanius cackled. “Just like you wanted. Unfortunately, you’ve suffered a massive brain aneurism from all those negative vibes you gave off your whole miserable life.”

Albert lay staring up at the ceiling. Echoes sounded inside his immobile head as the pounding on the wall began again.

∼ Harrison Kim

The Most Lovable Man

February 14, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

Once upon a time, a lovable baby boy was born. As the baby grew, he became even more lovable, until he reached manhood, and by then he was impossibly, unbearably loveable. He couldn’t allow anyone to be a friend because they might be killed out of jealousy. He couldn’t go to a rock concert because someone would see him and shriek, drawing the attention of many others. There would be violence and all would end in deaths from trampling or the like.

In time, he became rather proud of his effect on other people. Even the rich and famous wanted to hug and cuddle him, call him baby names. He never met a single person who behaved otherwise, until one day he went for a walk in the country. He was thinking about what to have for lunch and wasn’t looking where he was going. All of a sudden, he bumped into a pretty young woman waiting for the bus. He panicked, searching right and left, but there was nowhere to hide. Suddenly, an amazing thing happened. Instead of jumping his bones, the girl moved away from him. He tried speaking to her and she made a face at him. “Leave me alone!” she said. When he persisted, she hit him with her umbrella. Of course, a man of his stature, with all the human race crazy about him, could not allow this anomaly. He took her umbrella away and beat her to death.

∼ Marge Simon

Boring as Hell

February 7, 2024January 24, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 5 Comments

The clock ticked away the minutes and hours. It was the loudest noise in the office, but George barely heard it; the sound had long since faded into his subconscious.

The office was large. He wasn’t sure how many people worked there; everyone was tucked into their own individual cubicles. The cubicles were arranged so the workers couldn’t see each other, but some flaw in the layout allowed him to see the girl next to him. He couldn’t see much, just a tuft of brown hair, the edge of a shoulder, the hint of a skirt. He’d never seen her face. He’d never spoken to her, but watching her gave him some comfort. She felt like a friend.

Every day in the office was the same. His in-box was always full when he sat down. It was his job to empty it. He processed orders and dockets. Goods received, goods shipped. It was the same endless routine, but today something was different. George put a completed invoice into his out-box and then paused. He felt more alert, more thoughtful. It suddenly occurred to him he couldn’t remember how long he’d worked in the office. He couldn’t remember how much he got paid. He couldn’t remember what he did when he left the office. Where did he live? Did he have a family? Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he having a stroke? Was it a brain tumor? He stood, his head spinning. He stumbled over to the cubicle where the girl worked.

“I don’t feel well. I think I need help.”

She looked at him, her eyes dull and uninterested. Even in his distressed state, George saw she was significantly older than he’d imagined. Before she could respond, a disembodied voice echoed across the office.

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles.”

George looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m ill!”

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately.”

“Please!”

“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately!”

The woman stared at him blankly without speaking. George returned to his cubicle, still feeling unwell.

The next morning, he noticed the woman’s cubicle was empty. He felt a brief sense of disquiet, quickly forgotten, as the drudgery of the day’s work blocked all conscious thought from his mind. But in his subconscious, the questions from the previous day were still there, causing a spark of self-awareness in the endless routine and conformity. His neurons fired, his brain cells reviewed memories and observations. A revelation popped into his conscious mind.

“I know where I am.”

In the distance an alarm sounded and the disembodied voice spoke once again.

“All employees remain seated. All employees remain seated.”

The voice continued, but George paid no attention. He stood.

“I KNOW WHERE WE ARE!”

There was a soft voice at his side.

“Come this way, George. Please.”

The man next to him was a stranger. Dressed in a neat business suit, it occurred to George this might be his boss. He felt his arm being taken and he was lead to a small, windowless office at the side of the main office. He’d never noticed it before. There was a table and two chairs. The man sat in one and indicated for George to sit in the other.

“This has only happened twice before, George. It is, if the word isn’t slightly inappropriate, a miracle.”

“What?”

“Your revelation.”

“Oh.”

“So, tell me, where are you?”

George hesitated.

“Go on, George, you were brave enough to shout it out to everyone in the office. Tell me.”

“I think…I think I’m in Hell.”

“And why do you think that?”

“It’s the same every day. The same boring, dull endless paperwork. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I live or what I do outside this office. I don’t speak to anyone. It’s the same routine every day. Hell isn’t fire and torture, at least that’d be interesting. Hell is this.”

The man smiled, then leant forward, his hand extended.

“Congratulations George, you’ve just been promoted.”

∼ RJ Meldrum

Crusty Foulers

January 31, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 3 Comments

The text contained only one word: Sorry.

Typically, their exchanges were memes that mutated into gifs that advanced to snarky comments that evolved into competitive complaints about family obligations, traffic, and the weather. This simple, plaintive word was cause for alarm.

Lana tried Facetiming. Then she tried calling. There was no answer. The last time they had been together had been only a few days before when they had returned from a girls’ trip. They had chosen a short cruise, all inclusive. Clara had wanted a few days of not having to cook or clean or worry about calories. Lana had wanted fresh air and stimulation that came from anything other than the fluorescent light above her cubicle and the hold music she so often faced during business calls. Most of all, they wanted time together, uninterrupted. An ocean voyage had checked all boxes and they had packed together on Facetime, approving each other’s choices of vacation-wear.

They had planned to “twin” for their final dinner on board. This was a tradition they had begun over two decades before. At that time, they would twin for school, linking arms and walking the halls as if conjoined. They would infuriate their teachers by going to each other’s classrooms and they drove their parents crazy with insisting that they have twin sleepovers, often squeezing into a shared and strained sleeping bag.

For their twin dinner, they had packed matching dresses, barrettes, purses, and shoes. Physically, they looked nothing alike, yet their twin costume announced to the world that they were inseparable. As they were applying their finishing touches, Clara pulled out a tube of lip gloss from her makeup bag.

“Where did you get that?” Lana eyed the tube that looked naked without a label.

“My evil stepmother.” Clara laughed. “The witch finally did something right.”

“The first time in what…when did he marry her? Fifteen years ago? Twenty?”

Clara smacked her lips together, the gloss adding a coral sheen. “Feels like forever ago. She put a spell on him, a curse on the rest of us.”

“Especially us crusty foulers.” Lana wore the name given to them by Clara’s stepmother with pride. The woman accused them of being barnacles: overly attached to each other and a discomfort to others. She, more than any other, hated their twin games and would often mutter curses beneath her breath as they strolled around arm in arm.

“She talks like a longshoreman.”

“Smells like one, too.”

As Clara’s stepmother never failed to share her disdain for their friendship, this present for their vacation was completely unexpected.

Clara handed the gloss to Lana and watched her apply it. “The funny thing is she said it was created especially for my skin tone. But it works on you, too, and we are opposite ends of the color palette.”

Lana shrugged. “Black magic.”

***

They had both cried when it was time to leave the ship. They had been sad about having to return to their stressful lives, and stressful jobs, and stressful commutes. They had been saddest about having to separate again. In the days after returning, Lana had felt a matchless form of loneliness. Then she had received the mysterious text.

Lana wished she could spend more time trying to reach her friend, but she had to get ready for work. As she showered, she noticed a pain beneath her breasts. When she tried to investigate with her hand, she was met with a surface so sharp that it lacerated her fingertips. Panicked, she rushed to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam away, to see barnacles beneath each armpit and under her breasts.

“This is crazy,” she whispered. She could hear the stepmother’s voice, dripping with vitriol as she said “crusty foulers.” How could they have been so stupid, believing the woman had given a gift with good intentions.

Lana knew she had to see Clara; she had to confirm that the symptoms were real, that she wasn’t losing her mind.

As she drove the short distance between their homes, she saw the skin on the backs of her hands shift from smooth to crusted with protuberances.

Lana smacked her palms on Clara’s door, calling for her friend. It felt as if it took hours for Clara to answer, but it had only been minutes.

“Lana!” Clara’s face was swollen from crying. She flung herself into Lana’s arms. “I am so sorry. I should have known. That witch. I should have known.”

“We only called her a witch to be mean, we didn’t really think—”

“I did,” Clara murmured into Lana’s neck, which was now wet with tears. “I always suspected…the things that went on in that house, the way my dad changed. I just never had proof and now…” She pulled back as if to examine her chest but found that their torsos were fused tightly together.

“Oh my god, pull,” Lana instructed. She tried sliding a hand between them to see if she could unhook them the way a cat’s claws could be unlatched when snagged on material.

“I can’t,” Clara was able to take a step back with her right leg, but her left had fastened to Lana’s. “It’s getting worse.”

“I am going to push you and it might hurt,” Lana warned uselessly, as her right hand had become affixed to Clara’s back. She had an odd recollection of playing Twister when they were younger, and how they had toppled to the floor, tangled together and laughing. As children, they had wanted to be together always. They hadn’t imagined it would be this hazardous.

Lana tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult as Clara’s chest weighed against her own. When she tried again, they fell, landing heavily and unable to do more than squirm against the carpet.

Their bodies were becoming less and less distinct as they combined into one crusty shell.

Clara’s forehead melded into Lana’s nose. “Remember how we didn’t want to leave the cruise ship? We didn’t want to say goodbye?” Clara asked, her lips still able to move.

“Yes,” Lana responded, but it was more of a last breath being expelled as their faces attached.

“Now we never have to.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

Open Door

January 24, 2024January 10, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

“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.

∼ Angela Yuriko Smith

First Day of School

January 17, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Amelia looked through the crud-covered windows of the family home. She felt no urge to clean them as the scene they would reveal was far from idyllic. The constant dust storms and polluted rain had turned what was once a desirable location into a gray, depressing collection of mostly abandoned houses. She held her hand over her mouth and shook her head to dispel the feelings of despair.

Tom, her husband, wrapped his arms around her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. The initial start that he had given her ebbed into a sense of security. She turned around and returned the embrace with an added kiss.

They both sighed and recomposed themselves before calling the children down from their bedrooms. Five minutes later Emma, Joanne, and Rebecca walked down the stairs.

“Let’s have a look at you, Emma,” Amelia asked. Emma was the oldest of their three daughters. She was eleven. She had rosy red cheeks and blonde hair. She was tall for her age, if not a bit thin. But then, everyone was thin in their family. The meager diet of oats mixed with a few greens didn’t lend itself to obesity, to say the least.

Emma shyly stepped forward and meekly smiled. “But I don’t want to go to school,” she complained.

“Now now, you know it’s time. Everyone needs an education and I can’t teach you anymore. What you learn will be important not just for you, but for everyone,” Amelia replied. “Don’t forget how lucky you are, most children don’t get a chance to go to school these days. You should be grateful to Dad for getting you a place.”

Emma sulked but then perked up for the sake of her family.

“But why does it have to be a boarding school, and why do I have to stay for so long?” she enquired.

“Darling,” her father replied, “the school is a long way away. You know we haven’t got any transport and with the rarity of gas these days they just can’t afford to run the school bus back-and-forth apart from at the end of the school year. Now get your things together. Look at the time, we’ve got to go or you’ll miss it.” He bent down and whispered in her ear “At least you won’t have to put up with Mum’s cooking until then.”

Emma giggled.

She said goodbye to her sisters before leaving the house, accompanied by her mother and father. They walked the fifteen minutes to the pick-up point at the old railway station. The last time the station had seen a working train was nearly a decade earlier. Within five minutes the rusty, once-yellow bus rattled its way around the corner. Emma hugged her parents, not wanting to ever let go. Eventually, she tore herself away from their embrace and boarded the decrepit bus. Tom spoke briefly to the school official.

Tom and Amelia slowly walked home. Before entering their house they stopped. They had lied to Emma and their other two daughters. Emma wouldn’t be coming home. After initial training, she would be sold off into servitude. A maid or cook to one of the wealthy families.

“At least she won’t have to go hungry living on what we can offer,” Tom said in way of reply to the question that wasn’t even asked. He held out his hand and showed Amelia the fifty silver coins that the ‘School’ official had paid them in way of compensation. “We’ve got to think of the whole family. This will keep us going for a few seasons, even more if we can save some of the grain we buy and manage to get some sort of harvest this year.”

Amila gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew he was right, but she had no idea what she was going to tell Joanne and Rebecca when Emma failed to return.

***

There were about thirty children on the bus. Emma was seated next to an auburn-haired girl called Stacy.

“I hope we get placed with the same family,” Stacy said.

“What do you mean. We’re going to school?”

“Oh, god. I’m so sorry, didn’t you know?”

“I want to go home” Emma cried.

Stacy comforted her as best she could. She tried to get her to look on the bright side. She explained all the benefits of being in service. Good food, nice clothes. Even with all the work, it’d still be better than what they had to put up with at home.

***

Back at Emma’s house, Amelia stared solemnly at the family photo which hung on the living room wall. She lovingly caressed the image of Emma.

***

The girls were escorted from the bus into a large waiting room. One by one they were called. When Stacy’s name was read out she turned to Emma and said she hoped to see her soon. After about five minutes it was Emma’s name that was called out. A stern-looking women took her by the hand and led her down a long corridor. They entered a large hall. In front of her were rows of seats occupied by the cream of what was left of society. Emma was told to stand in the center of the hall.

“Lot number twenty three” a man’s voice announced through speakers on the wall. “Eleven years old and in good health. Can we start the bidding at one thousand pieces of silver?” He asked.

And so the auction began.

All too soon it was over.

“Going once, going twice, Sold at two thousand seven hundred silver pieces” announced the auctioneer. The couple who had successfully bought Emma smiled at each other. It was an expensive purchase, but in these times fresh meat was extremely rare, and so cost a lot of money. Only the rich could afford to eat it. But this couple, as were all of the others in the auction room were very, very wealthy. Shortages of food meant nothing to them when anything they desired could be bought at a price.

***

Tom and Amelia dished up their tasteless family meal in ignorance. It appeared that Emma wasn’t the only person that had been lied to.

∼ Ian Sputnik

A Shadow’s Whisper

January 10, 2024December 12, 2023 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 4 Comments

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.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela