How deep the sleep
when only billows of gray
on undulating, soundless, black tides
are dreamed?
Yet, her peace was disturbed,
then perturbed
by its touch; it’s wet caress,
slithering across the tops of toes,
then ankles.

How deep the sleep
that held eyes shut,
captive, rapt,
even as,
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?

She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”

How deep the sleep
that held her
motionless
in tight bands
as it slithered
up, over, around,
deep between legs,
deep between hips,
between breasts,
touching lips,
even as
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?
She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”

How deep the sleep
that forced fear to fight
frozen tight in bonds of terror’s coils
until she erupted,
free and quaking,
awaking
even as
above palpable tactile splatter spatter
of falling rain on window sills,
a voice sighed at her ear?

And she saw it.

She saw
its face, wet, dripping
rain, sweat,
grinning;
dark horror,
above her face,
in the night,
She heard,
“Sarah, come out.
Come out
into
the rain.”

How deep the sleep?
How deep the sleep?

Stuart James Forrest was born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1951. He is a retired public servant living in Foster City, California. He writes poetry, short stories, screenplays and hopes to develop enough skill to be a strong, creative voice of my generation of Black Americans who lived through very tumultuous times in American history.

If this document came to you by way of military courier or heli-drone, congratulations! The US Department of Undead Control (USDUC) has labeled you a prime candidate for the repopulation of our species. Please use the content within to maintain your survivor status and the handbook itself as a membership card to confirm your eligibility to a suitable mate. While we offer condolences for the horrors you have witnessed during these trying times, we encourage you to recognize the opportunity this apocalypse affords the human race.

For too long, human survival and social evolution have been anything but Darwinian in nature. Take for example the early days of the present infestation. Though incidents were still sparse enough for us to explain away as extreme reactions to designer drugs or the antics of demonic cults, the Pentagon in collaboration with the newly formed USDUC decided to move chosen individuals into secluded environs, should the outbreak grow to unmanageable proportions. While our foresight proved prudent, the criteria for ‘choice’ candidates depended more on the individual’s political clout or persistent braggadocio. The tragic outcome that has resulted in those bunkers initiated a revision to our thinking to direct our repopulation under more intelligent design. We eliminated frivolous qualities like social standing from survival algorithm 2.0.

You, dear reader, have ticked at least seven boxes on our quality checklist (in no particular order: unwavering aim, astute foraging techniques, spatial intelligence, healthy gums, rigid morality free from sentiment, demonstrable vigor and stamina, catholic eating preferences, excellent peripheral vision, a spidey-sense for danger, a facility for tinkering through mechanical issues, lactose tolerance and innate hygienic instincts). Yes, your activities have been under scrutiny for some time, even if you thought you were on your own. If this document appeared covertly in your knapsack or tucked under your pillow (or whatever object has served as such), please do not share it with present company. Instead, seek out USDUC-approved stock with whom to increase. Should your personal predilections tend away from traditional spawning methods, we implore you to reconsider. The future of the the human population lies squarely in your loins!

While the numbers and resources available at USDUC are significant and could provide a significant base from which the human species could replenish, we are objective and frank enough to confess our population a less than ideal substance with which to refill the genetic pool. Our military affiliates possess in spades the physical fitness we favor, but they often lack creativity and critical thinking skills (a conceit so inbred into governmental systems we don’t hesitate to make mention of this, as we doubt any screwhead will ever read this far into our script). The cogs of our departmental bureaucracy, the administrative assistants, interns and yes-men (and -women), lack initiative and leadership skills. The techs who maintain the network that lets us collaborate even while cordoned into separate bunkers exhibit the facility for tinkering and ingenuity, but they fail at physical prowess and offer only an imbalance of men among their numbers. And the politicians? The fact they are politicians, combined with their pasts as lawyers, make them more likely to be lunchmeat than progenitors (again, note our confidence in presenting such claims).

And we, the researchers and scientists who have authored this very treatise, disqualify ourselves due to our circumstantial ethics. We gathered much of our data for the following treatise through the extensive surveillance network at our disposal, but in order to provide the most accurate information possible, we also needed primary material. Thus, we had to relegate concern for our fellow man to a global rather than individual precept. In short, not only did we toy with live human experimentation but worked at it like a crew of Santa’s Little Helpers the week before Christmas. Some of us try to justify such dedication as a sign of our master status, but this delusional self-advocacy eventually lost out against the confirmed qualities listed previously. As candidates for a better breed of mankind, we must conclude ourselves unfit. Instead, we offer our findings, confident they will give you an edge in survival and propagation.

But despite our confidence, we continue to harbor concerns and debate amongst ourselves over a quality harder to measure: human reasoning, specifically the lack of it and the tendency to forego logic and evidence to take action (or inaction) that has done nothing less than aid the present decimation. Our concerns do not apply so much to the recklessly stupid or fraudulent, as we hope their deficiencies will prove painfully obvious and thus avoidable. Take three tenets that should by now be indisputable: 1) zombies exist; 2) they are corpses reanimated by contagion; and 3) they yearn only for human flesh, despite an inability to digest their intake. Yet even these basic laws remain in dispute within certain circles, namely zombie Truthers who blame gluten, radical Islam or false flag government operations while they huddle unvaccinated in their burrows surrounded by evidence to the contrary. Clearly, these high-diving acts should remain far from our gene pool.

We also presume you to have the good sense to be wary of those with fraudulent tendencies, like the purveyors of the Brazilian Suppository Treatment, which involved a leaf-wrapped mixture of pimento, cumin and paprika inserted as per the title suggested to ward off zombie attacks. While the prevalence of undead with such suppositories rolling free in the seats of their pants suggested the recipe provided no protection, these hucksters insisted the only failure was in the insertion phase and subsequently offered finger-thick applicators, just pay separate shipping and handling, first thousand orders to include a battery-operated grill or hand-cranked radio.

But once you get past the obvious charlatans, frauds and dopes, the problems of logic get a little harder to take a hard line on. How to classify the marks of such hucksters, for example? Gullibility would seem to be a trait we should breed out of our species. But could such gullibility denote a trust in authority? This is where the logic behind the human animal becomes harder to fathom. For now, we have decided to rule such people unworthy of reproduction. You, dear reader, are our purest subject—unyielding and furiously pragmatic in your dealings with other human beings. Only if you prove too small a sample to stem the tide of this infestation will we reconsider such second-string qualities as trust and faith in others.

Another troublesome lapse in human reasoning comes with the conclusion based on (excuse the unavoidable wordplay) the dead man’s response. For example, the Mouse Ingestion Method, popular in Illinois, where a live mouse is dropped into the mouth of the recently deceased and the mouth sewn shut as a preventative. Despite the simple fact that a corpse that does not reanimate in the five to ten minutes it takes to complete the procedure will most likely not reanimate under any circumstance, the Mouse Ingestion Method has been deemed a resounding success by the locals. By the same reasoning, if we were to stick the stems of green bananas in our ears and note the lack of crocodile attacks in the immediate vicinity, we might be inclined to conclude bananas to be crocodile-repellant when inserted aurally. If we lived in in an Arctic region, this experiment could be repeated endlessly with almost complete agreement in the results. But take us to the middle of the Okefenokee with a bounty of bananas. Will our results hold up, even if we vary the state of ripeness among our bunch? Even the simplest calculations of probability will provide a grim outlook.

Yet the Illinois Mouse Method remains popular in its region. A sad, undeniable truth about our species as pattern-seeking mammals is that we are masters of self-deception and yearn to see proof where none exists when we have already decided upon a certain conclusion.

But why a mouse and not, say, a potato bug or sparrow? The ritual itself may contain a kind of placebo effect, an assurance of having some control over the zombie apocalypse. Is this kind of hope, albeit false, such a horrible trait?

While some of us at USDUC see such indiscretions of reason as relatively harmless, others contend that false hope and acquiescence to authority can and has led to far worse acts and should be bred out. They cite the Evisceration Protocol, spearheaded by a survivalist group encamped in Montana. The leadership of this group concocted the notion that a substance extracted from the entrails of the weak and elderly while still alive served as a vaccination against the zombie virus. The members of this group followed suit and constructed a machine that streamlined the evisceration process. As hard as it may be to believe that two workers could stand by while live people had their innards ripped away, such seemed to be the case. (In the spirit of thorough research, such substance was extracted and tested during the composition of this document. None of our own extractions yielded any measurable benefit.)

But our common concern, even as we bicker over such examples, is the possibility that illogic and the propensity to reach faulty conclusions may be inseparable from the human genome. Especially when it comes to the subject of zombies, the human race has a long history of utilizing logic that may not seem far-fetched at first, though the caboose of that train of logic turns out quite perplexing. For example: if malaria includes a modicum of the disease, and shots against influenza incorporate the same, wouldn’t it stand to reason that a zombie bite could be cured by further application of the same?  Hair of the undead, so to speak? Perhaps letting a revenant ruminate the area of injury (a method tried in Romania in the early 18th century) seems outlandish to those who have acquired a more accurate body of knowledge, but a certain logic, albeit fallacious, does apply.

Exhibit B: a 16th century Norman medical script that suggested defeathering the rectal area of a rooster and placing the exposed portal directly against the wound. The pucker may have been correlated to the ability to suck infection from the victim, but why a rooster in particular? A quick visual examination of other anuses will show that various creatures, aviary to mammalian, offer more puckered cavities and would seem more apropos to the task.

A monastic document dating from the Dark Ages references a scroll in ancient Arabic that offered an antidote composed of marzipan and warm sherbet poured into the wound, which should then be covered with lemongrass. The original source, if there ever was one, has remained undiscovered. Perhaps the original technique was intended more to comfort the dying victim than to provide pharmaceutical benefit.

The earliest discovered reference to a cure comes from a scrap found in a trash heap in a north African desert. The scrap is only a fragment, and most of the markings are illegible save a combination of the symbols for deceased and sleepwalker. From there, the only other legible markings offer the following prescription: ear, force, licorice root, almonds, burn. We have experimented with different combinations and recipes since finding this scrap, but nothing resembling any kind of treatment has yet resulted.

In short, human beings have a long history of poor reasoning skills. One wonders how we ever managed to evolve into the dominant species in the first place.

Or did we? A curious characteristic of the zombie, which has in fact taken top billing in the world food chain, is that it operates on the most binary of equations (simply put, to eat or not to eat), yet that binary is so absolute that the zombie seems immune to subterfuge.  No experiment has produced any kind of by-product, doctoring method or disguise that has dissuaded one from wanting to eat that which it would normally eat and spread its contagion. Thus, its absolute lack of reasoning skills seems to be its evolutionary advantage.

So we exhort you, chosen recipient, to use this document to carry forward the traits we find most admirable to the species, but in the spirit of full disclosure, we have to acknowledge the possibility that no amount of selective breeding can stop the larger devolutionary wave eating away at us, literally and figuratively, and that this document will prove in the end to be more of an accounting of our death throes than our revitalization. If you are a visitor to this planet–welcome. We hope to provide you a reliable account of the cause of our decimation. USDUC, as befits the thorough nature of federal agencies, has not ruled you out as a possible audience. Read on!

Richard Weems is the author of three short fiction collections: Anything He Wants (finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Prize) (Spire Press, 2006), Stark Raving Blue (WbW Ink, 2016) and From Now On, You’re Back (WbW Ink, 2017). Recent appearances include North American Review, Flash Fiction Magazine and Ginosko Literary Journal. He lives and teaches in New Jersey.

I wake up
But I am dreaming still
Of blood stained walls and claws of bone

Is that what the darkness of 
This locked room is for?

This blackness 
That lies behind these opiated eyes
Gazing blankly at ghosts of yesterday
That haunt and gnaw my autumn frame

Or is it for that pale blue box?
Inside which these hands will find 
Not what they want but what I need

A calm – for now – 
Neat and round in yet more pills
And laid out in long strips of silver

Not enough to kill 
But enough for now
To smash and maim 
Their hell-bound mirror
And all of their unwanted shadows

Of all the deeds I have not forgotten
Of all the things I cannot believe I am
And of all the things I will never be

The ghosts don’t speak
No – they don’t have to say a word
They have already laid out their fate for me

Which lies there – 
Bright as night but lifeless still – 
With the spectre of their evidence

XXI – Le Monde

This cracked and isolated universe
Finely wreathed 
In my own self caused separation
From the bull and from the eagle 
From the lion and from humanity

J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas.

A man at my dad’s work slathered
glue over his entire hairy body.

This is true. My dad’s a psychiatrist.

The man undressed outside, at midnight,
planting himself in the vegetable garden
as a human scarecrow.

He was the birdseed, and they came,
all twenty birds came
to rest
on his naked
sticky body.

He had company.
At midnight.
The glow of twenty birds
covering his tremors
and twitching chin.

He stayed there until morning.
Stripped

but blanketed in feathers.

And they came,
all twenty doctors with restraints
and baggy pants and a blue hospital gown
belts buttons velcro
zippers for his mouth
they came like biting crows
and not like the birds
they came.

For they came to suffocate, not cloak.
For they came to smother, not shower in plumage.

The twenty came because they had always
been taught to come.
The nurses,
head specialists,
medical advisors.
Ones still in training were even there.

They thought they were gluing
the man back together.

All they did was deny
his new wings.

Amanda Dettmann is an English major at Marist College in New York. Her poetry has appeared in the Mosaic and Angles, and she has a published poetry book titled Untranslatable Honeyed Bruises. She is also involved in theatre at her college and recently returned from a semester abroad in Florence, Italy.

The death of a child is a terrible thing. Something that haunts a soul and tears a mans heart in two. The death of a child.

To dishonor a child before she dies is unspeakable. My daughter died at the hands of an evil man. That is all I have to say about it. What was I to do? I couldn’t help her. I wasn’t there.

I heard her scream. I heard her call my name. At least I think I did. If I didn’t, I have heard it every night since then. It haunts my dreams.

What was I to do?

I found something else to haunt my dreams.

We walked across the pasture, the damp grass catching around our ankles, soaking the bottoms of our slacks. We wore slacks and shirts and carried a shotgun in case we saw a rabbit.

“No rabbits to be seen in the fog Frankie.”

“Aye,” Frankie replied. I could hear the nerves coning through in his voice. He knew why I brought him out here. “No rabbits. Sure we might get something.”

“Aye.” We walked on in silence. Smalltalk did nothing to ease any situation. I had second thoughts. They never lasted long. I thought of her and they disappeared. They lifted off like the fog before us, rising in the morning sunrise. It was dawn. Sixish, is suppose, September, the weather still nice.

“Grand…” I said.

“Hah?”

“Grand…” Silence. “The weather. It’ll be a mild winter.”

“Less of the smalltalk Pat. It’s useless. We’ll look at the place and then we’ll get the hell out of here. Right?”

“Right. I can do it myself anyway.”

“Yer me brother,” he said. “She was me niece. If yer doin it, we’re doin it together.”

“Right.” We walked the rest of the way in silence. The fog had lifted when we arrived and the sun shone bright through the clouds. Birds sang. She loved birds. Loved the nature. Bright and beautiful days made me sad. There was no joy in these days any more. I loosed my grip and dropped the gun with a thud and dropped to my knees.

“Jesus Pat,” Frankie shouted. “The fuckin gun.” Frankie never swore, unless it was serious. “Ya could have set the cursed thing off. What’s wrong with ya?” He saw my shoulders shake. Men don’t cry. Irish men don’t cry. Men like us don’t cry. We fight, we don’t cry. My shoulders shook and I convulsed on my knees like a man kneeling in prayer and bent to the ground as if in homage. Homage to what I don’t know, I did not believe in any God, at least not any more. He watched me, curl to a ball and sob and shake. I felt his hand on my shoulder. Hard and strong. “I’m here,” he said. He knelt beside me in the wet grass. “I’m here,” he whispered. Nothing more. The hand and the whisper. That was all I needed. “Go on home Pat. Go on home. Ill have a look at the place?”

“Whaaa….” I couldn’t even talk, snot dripping down my chin. “But ya weren’t sure,” I said.

“I’m sure now,” he said, he jaw set, face hard. “I’m sure now. Ill get the place sorted. You go on home. Go the back-road. It’ll be grand, Ill go the other way and nobody’ll be the wiser,” he assured me. “It’s alright. We’ll sort it out Pat. Ill be up later.”

I left the gun with him and went back across the pasture. She walked with me. She always did. I felt her, but it didn’t help. It only made things harder. “Christ,” I said. “Christ, will ya leave me alone?” The footprints in the sand I thought. There’s no one carrying me but my brother I thought. I went home and slept, in an empty house full of empty memories. Slept like the dead.

“He’s down there Pat.”

What was that.

“He’s down there Pat. Come on. We’ll head out now.”

“What time is it?” I said. I had an oil lamp and I lit it. The shadows dancing around the room. Cold. I was on the sofa, the sacred heart picture of Jesus looking down on me. “I’ll have to take that down,” I said out loud. The knocking on he window brought me back. “That you Frank?”

“Yeah,” come on.

The footprints in the sand, I thought. I looked back up at the picture. Maybe he was carrying me. Maybe she was carrying me. “Don’t do it Da. Just leave him be.” I didn’t hear that. That was just me thinking. I must have said it out loud.

I threw on me jacket. “Do ya have it?”

“Which?”

“The gun,” I whispered. I hoped he didn’t. Sure we’ll leave it for another night I’d say.

“Ya, I have it. Come on. We’ll see him at the gate.”

“What time is it?” I asked as we walked. I could hear an owl hooting somewhere and the rustle of wings. You never saw them. Like a devil in the night. “No Da, an angel. They’re looking out for ya. Go back to bed Da.”

“What?”

“Ssssh,” Frankie said. “I said nothin. Its around twelve. Whisper lad. Discretion here if ever ya were to be discreet. Shush now, lets get this business done.”

“I’m not sure Frank,” I said. “Maybe we should head back.”

I didn’t know where his hands came from. The same strong hand that was on my shoulder, giving me the strength to get back up in the field this morning was around my throat holding me like a vice. “Sush now,” he said. ThHis grip was like an iron fist, the muscles in his forearm tensed and strong. “Sorry,” he let go. “She was my blood too Pat. Come on. We’ll get it over with.”

And so we went. He arrived at about half one. Hard to know, I had no watch. We brought him through the field. There wasn’t a sound or an argument. He couldn’t argue, we had the gun. He was half jarred anyway, I’d say he wasn’t himself.

“Just a few questions James,” we told him. “Not here though. We heard you might have seen something that night.”

“Right,” He said. “Maybe in the morning lads.”

“Nah, Jimmy, Now,” Frank insisted. “The brother here is beside himself. His only daughter. It’d be a big help.” The shot gun helped convince him too I suppose.

We walked him up through the field in silence. No lights. No moon. Darkness. Blackness. Like the night he had me daughter.

“No Da,” she said. “Don’t worry about it Da, It’s over now.” She held my hand. Her little hand in my big hand as I walked trough the wet grass, Frankie with the gun held low, walking behind Jimmy Murray.

“What if he runs?” I had asked him. “We’ll let him off. There’ll be another night.”

And I walked on, her small hand in mine. No, that wasn’t it. I was tired. She’s dead. She wasn’t with me. I could see the trail of trampled grass I had taken this morning as our eyes adjusted. Two trails. Frank must have come back this way too. Footprints in the sand. “I carried you.”

Jesus. I was going mad. “I’m going home Frank.”

“Thats it Da, go to bed.”

“Pat. Were here. We’ll ask James a few questions and we’ll all head home.”

“Right.” I didn’t like it. We went in to the shed by the trees. Dark. Like stepping into a cave. I didn’t like it. I knew what was in there. There was no way back. It was my idea.

“Whats all this?” Jimmy asked as we struck a match and lit the candle. The soft light bouncing along the walls. A three legged wooden stool stood in the middle of the floor and a rope hung from the rafter. It swayed, rotating in a small circle in the breeze from the doorway as the candle flickered.

“I think ya have a fair idea Jim, Get up on the stool or I’ll blow yer fuckin brains out. Tell the truth and ya’ll head home.”

Jimmy’s legs shook and he pissed himself but he stood on the chair.

“Hands by yer sides,” Frank instructed, businesslike, efficient. “It was my plan. I had convinced him of this. He didn’t want to do it and now here he was pointing the gun. “Put that rope around yer neck there James, good man.”

Jimmy whimpered and sobbed.

“Quit yer crying. Ya didn’t stop when his daughter cried did ya?”

“Aaaah….” Jimmy cried, but stood still on the chair, the noose around his neck, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I didn’t touch her,” he said, “It wasn’t me. I swear lads.” He wailed. “It wasn’t me.”

“Come on home Da,” she said.

“Was it him my child?”

“It doesn’t matter Da.”

“Was it him?” I shouted?

“Quiet Pat. Was it you Jimmy?”

“No,” he wailed, his drunk legs unsteady but he kept his balance lest he’d fall and dangle.

“Leave him Da,” she said. I could hear her voice like she was standing beside me.

“Was it him?” I roared. The wind was picking up outside, thank God or someone would have heard us. No reply.

“Right.” Frank said. “This is getting out of hand. Part. Relax,” he told me, were heading home.

“It was him,” she whispered. I could hear the tears on her voice. So sad. The saddest voice I ever heard.

I kicked the stool and he fell and kicked his legs as he dangled. My brother grabbed him as his face turned blue and he clawed at his neck.

“Step away Frank,” I told him, and he did. Jimmy Murray choked to death for the rape and murder of my daughter and I never heard her voice again.

George Burns is a full time civil engineer and part time writer.

nose drowned in a corn field;
only tip of her trunk graced 
the mist above & twitched
a fascinate. She picked up notes

of wet popcorns & whispers 
at 38°F. Screams pressed close
her nostrils & brushed
her ears asking for a good

night kiss. On the cross,
she heard the torch judge her
ponytail: too loose, girlfriend, 
before the hair tips began

to clinch to her scalp & smell 
like sulfur & the whispers grew loud—

Winniebell Xinyu Zong is a poet and djembe player. She was born and raised in an industrial city in China. Zong holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from Franklin and Marshall College, where she received Nolt Music Award and Honaman Japanese Study Fund. Her work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Rigorous, littledeathlit, NYMBM, High Shelf Press, and Little Patuxent Review. She now mentors high school students on college access at College Advising Corps.

Not far from Ballarat, along the highway between Caralulup and Lamplough, on a road riddled with cracks and bumps, down a main street spanning the width of three road trains, in the finger-smudged window of a “Rare Books” shop, was a sign:

“Glouds’ bookshops are open all year long.”

The boast hung right above a yellowing scrap of paper that detailed the adhered-to business hours in Baskerville Old Face: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: Closed. Along the street, more signs were fixed to the storefronts with sticky tape or coloured blu tak; similar statements in similar fonts, and in varying degrees of shabbiness:

“We open on weekends.”

“No business Mon-Thurs.”

“Out – come back Sunday.”

Glouds was the name of the town, and it was widely acclaimed for its rich colonial history, as “an outstanding example of positive preservation”; meticulous, down to the smallest detail. Though barely significant enough to rate a mention in the Gold Rush history books, the town had been the site of a small Gold Miner’s strike in 1858, and the locals held onto this tiny piece of heritage with fierce pride. Shop after shop dripped with painstaking historical accuracy. A blacksmith, of course, with a working forge. A saddlery, oh yes, for the absent horses, for the boots that were never bought by the residents, who scuttled into Ballarat every few months to sheepishly shop at K-mart. A creek, naturally, rumoured to run rivers of gold and shroud the souls of expired prospectors, about whom any local could recite a few well-chosen verses of bush poetry. In this sort of colonial tribute there might have been the danger of an overstated touristy feel, but for the noticeable lack of tourists. The grey nomads, the nose-pierced backpackers, the honeymooners, the hipsters; they hadn’t found Glouds yet, it seemed.

But the Gloudsians were content with their little portion of history as it was; they had no need to share, no need to profit, no need to capitalise on the vintage, the quaint, the cute niceties about their town. They lived, for the most part, without drama, without trouble, without spats or grudges or debts or terror. Each did his or her job – see that was Di who ran the cafe, that was Bill who lopped the branches when they grew too far off the nature strip, that was Owen who was the Mayor and also bottled his own pears, and see over there, that was Jimbo, the town bum who carried plastics bags of tin cans and nails and most days got a free cuppa from Di – and it worked. It was the type of community, the type of family that was rarely seen; the kind of bucolic paradise that one imagines when dreaming of a simpler time.

That morning, the curling sign in the bookshop (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: Closed,) had peeled from the glass in one corner. A small pothole had appeared in the intersection near the Post Office, causing the few cars that traversed the main street to thwump ever so slightly. And a notice had appeared in the local paper. It was hiding in the classifieds, peeking from under the Public Announcements and nestled between an MTS Scrap Metal advert and a phone number for free solar power quotes. It simply read:

LEVEL 10 WATER RESTRICTIONS NOW IN PLACE

Information Night in the Town Hall on Thursday

to discuss our options.

***

“How’re you going Bill?”

“Oh not bad, for an old bloke.”

The man named Bill leant uneasily on the counter. Despite his still-abundant head of silver hair, he had a look about him, the look of a man who, whether through hardship or grief or merely years of physical labour, had aged young. Something melancholy about the eyes. He was tall, and carried an Akubra and a knobbly walking stick; the hat and cane of a true gentleman. He smiled at the woman who was now busy at the coffee machine, her face obscured by milky steam.

“Business going alright, Di?”

A guffaw erupted from the cloud of vapour, and a laughing face emerged.

“Not at all! God knows why I do this whole ‘buy four get the fifth one free’ nonsense, everyone’ll be getting their cuppa for nothing and I’ll be broke! It’s killing my till. Hold up love, sorry, the machine’s chucking a spaz again.”

The woman grabbed a dusty cloth and started scrubbing furiously at the boiling milk that had splattered every inch of the counter. She was plump and lined and had a sternness to her that could be perceived as a touch of the aggressive. But all who knew Di knew that this prickliness was just a shield. She always had time, despite her constant insistence that “she was run off her feet and heading to an early grave because of this thrice accursed cafe business!” If she liked you, she had your back. If not, she’d be at your back.

Luckily she liked most people.

“There you go, love.”

Bill took his chipped mug and gazed absently around the cafe. Di was faithful in keeping the place looking its best, circa 1858. “It’s all authentic, even the cobwebs have been there since the Gold Rush!” Di would always joke, wiping down the decorative barrels in the corner or stretching on tiptoe to dust the rusty horseshoe above the door. Some of the illusion was broken by the garish Streets ice-cream freezer in the corner and the radio blaring Classic Rock FM all day. But the place was warm, full of light, and always welcoming.

“Hold onto the word of God.”

The voice had come from the table by the window where an elderly woman sat, her shoes not quite touching the ground. Di looked up from the counter, Bill glanced over his coffee.

“You alright there, Joan?”

Joan nodded, her veiny legs swinging. She had tissue paper hands that looked ready to rip at the smallest graze; so thin that her tiny knuckles stuck right through, pale and stark. She had tufts of white hair and a bony body under a formless cardigan. But her eyes sparkled, chatoyant; gems in sagging skin. A newspaper sat neatly folded on the table. She had it opened at the weather report.

Everyone jumped as the cafe door swung wide open and a huge man with a bowling ball belly lolloped in, bellowing in a loud tenor.

“Made the front page again! I’ll be on it again next week too, I can guarantee that!”

Di rolled her eyes.

“All hail Glouds’ celebrity!” she cried with a mock bow. “You’re on the front page every bloody week, Owen, it’s not so impressive anymore.”

Owen beamed, his eyes disappearing beneath his round schoolboy cheeks.

“Just doing my mayoral duties, Di! You alright Bill? Joanie?”

Bill smiled and raised his mug in a salute. Joan tugged at a strand of hair and grinned with all her teeth, her soft little voice almost singing:

“And don’t forget to take the children to the train, they can’t be late, it leaves at eleven sharp, make sure they have their school uniforms ironed.”

Owen’s face softened.

“Of course, Joan.”

He pulled at his collar and accepted the takeaway cup from Di.

“And everyone make sure you’re at the Town Hall on Thursday. Exciting meeting happening!”

Brian looked up from the table.

“I saw something about that in the paper. It’s about the water, right? Because my water troughs haven’t been-”

“Yes, well, plenty of time to chat on Thursday, must dash, busy busy busy!” Still beaming, Owen bounced out of the cafe. Di shook her head.

“Honest to God, I’ve got about 20 odd papers around with his bloody face on it. I’ll take it home for me birds to poop on,” she grumbled, ambling over to the sink.

Bill watched as Di’s meaty hand twisted the cold faucet. Water trickled into the sink, hot, dusty brown, beading like sweat on the stainless steel. Di twisted the tap again. Nothing. A singsong voice was heard from the corner next to the window. 

“I will consume them by the sword, and by the famine, and by the pestilence.”

***

Ruth Gilmour is an emerging Australian author and playwright from Gunnedah, NSW. She graduated with a Bachelor of Dramatic Art in 2013, and was tutored in scriptwriting under the celebrated Australian playwright, Donna Abela. Writing credits for theatre include The Drunk Diaries (Excelsia Theatre) and Cradle Me (Excelsia Theatre). Most recently, Ruth’s stories have been published in the 2017 Newcastle Short Story Anthology, Stringybark Story’s A Nice Boy and Hunter Writers Centre’s Grieve Volume 5. Her poetry has appeared in the Words of Wyndham Anthology. Ruth is currently writing and performing in shows for Babble Productions, a theatre company run by herself and her husband.

the violence of forgetfulness

nature’s fury ripped pages from my story 
empty-handed I stand bereft
not knowing who I am

storm clouds gather at my window
I wait for someone
to punch through the vapor 
let me peer into yesterday

unheard I scream for recognition 
to find me in the forgotten land
lost in the forest of nameless trees
I beg for a hint a star a way-marker 
to show me how you wandered 
into my life and stayed

stayed without my comprehension
when did my mind dim
my eyes fail to know your face 
my fingers lose the feel of your skin 
my tongue stop to recognize the taste 
of your body

a question of my conception

was it a dark hurried moment
or afternoon 
when the sun lit the way

did she undress behind closed doors 
or loosen her garters 
roll down her stockings 
he watching and waiting

did he pull her dress over her head
did she shiver in anticipation
hungry for the mystery

did he hurry his buttons 
unzip his pants
unleash his ardor
force the need to deliver his seed
leave her lying alone 
confused by the pain

I hope they warmed to each other 
in a mist of whispers 
hair undone falling to her shoulders
he cupping her gently with open hands 
she full of wonder

At fifteen Christa emigrated to the US from Germany, she has lived the Midwest, the South, New England and now resides in Tucson with her husband and dog Whisky. An avid hiker, she contemplates the sweetness and sorrow of life on Arizona’s desert trails, while using poetry to give shape to her thoughts. She thinks of her writing as the footprint of her being, the legacy she leaves.

           “Are you Hawkins?” asked the skinny young man.

            The older man at the vending machine sighed. “Let me guess. You just joined up, and you want to know how I’ve survived six resets. I must have inside information or know some trick. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve just gotten lucky. What you’ve heard is true. By taking this job, you accept that it’ll kill you. You just last as long as you can to get more for whoever you’re leaving behind.”

            The young man flinched. “No, that’s not it. According to the bulletin board, I’m your partner. Well, your new partner, I guess. My name’s Crawford.”

            Hawkins looked surprised. “Oh, okay. Sorry I snapped at you. Getting the same questions over and over gets frustrating, especially since I don’t have the answers any more than the next guy. Is this your first time?”

            “Yeah. There’s just no other jobs to be had, and my wife and kid…well, you’ve probably heard it before. It’s how most end up here, I guess.” Crawford looked around. “I didn’t know so many people were this desperate.”

            “Well, this is orientation, so both shifts are here. Plus, it’ll start thinning out pretty fast as people drop out. Come on, let’s get our starting assignment.” Hawkins turned toward the desk at the front of the room.

            Crawford looked at the vending machine. “Weren’t you getting something?”

            “No, I was just curious how much the prices went up this time.”

            Crawford looked confused but joined the older man in the line. When they reached the front, the woman behind the desk asked, “Names?”

            “Hawkins and Crawford.”

            The clerk shuffled through some papers. “Right. Here’s your first duty sheet. Do you have your required uniform, equipment belt, boots and ID badge, or do you need to purchase them?”

            “I’m wearing mine,” replied Hawkins. “My partner here will need them, right?” Crawford nodded.

            “Very well,” the clerk said. “This form gives your consent to have the costs deducted from your pay. It also requires you to continue your employment until these costs and any other outstanding amounts you may accrue are repaid. Sign at the bottom and initial beside each amount.” The monotone delivery showed that the same speech had been given many times.

            Crawford leaned forward to sign, then looked up. “But this is more than we’ll make on our whole first pay. Nobody said anything about needing…”

            The clerk interrupted, sounding tired. “These items are a workplace requirement. If you do not wish to purchase them, you are free to decline employment.”

            Hawkins said quietly, “A reset within a week of the previous one has only ever happened a couple of times. You may as well take the stuff. Then if you drop out early you’ll have it for next time. Just my opinion.”

            “Makes sense,” said Crawford. He signed the papers.

            The clerk stamped them and handed over a copy. “Proceed through the marked door to receive your items. Welcome to Vigilance Corrections. Next, please.”

            Crawford trudged toward the door. “I didn’t know we’d get charged for this stuff.”

            “Get used to it,” said Hawkins. “That’s how this whole thing is set up. They’ll ding you every chance they get. Uniforms, gear, medicals, pay lockers, vending machines. That way you have to work longer and take more chances. It’s like the old company towns, way back in the railroad and mining days. All part of the plan.” His voice had a bitter edge.

            “What do you mean? What plan?”

            “Everyone thinks resets are to solve prison overcrowding. But they’re also designed to work on unemployment and poverty. People got sick of paying taxes to have criminals sit around forever, especially when they just kept on causing problems even in prison, so the idea of getting rid of them became easy to sell. But the politicians back then got the clever idea of tacking on more. If you’re going to get rid of the inmates when they cause trouble, why not also thin out the poor who had to take the guard jobs? It’s just collateral damage. Then you have empty prison slots, fewer poor people, and freshly opened jobs for the unemployed. It became a cycle that the masses got used to, so now it just takes a token attempt to dress it up.”

            Crawford looked shocked. “That can’t be true. People wouldn’t accept it.”

            “They don’t have to see it. We sign up voluntarily. We can quit anytime we want. Not many people know that if we quit twice, we don’t get rehired. And like you said, there’s no other jobs, not here at the bottom. Not many know all the costs they stick us with, or that we’re forced to stay until they’re repaid. That the pay is nothing at first, and only the death benefit is really worth anything. That we can’t get out once a reset starts. Not many know, because they don’t want to. That’s how it is. Two shifts, so a fifty-fifty chance you’re on duty when it happens. A coin flip, and let it ride until you lose. Or quit, and have your family lose with you, homeless and starving.” Hawkins seemed to deflate. “Let’s get to work. First day is always sweeping detail.”

            They picked up brooms as they went through the equipment room and out into the steel and concrete of the empty cell blocks. “How can there be so much dust?” asked Crawford. “The whole place seals up, doesn’t it?”

            “That’s why,” replied Hawkins. “Inmates start trouble, and the warden hits the reset button. Seal up, gas, and heat. Pyrolytic, like a self-cleaning oven. This dust is the last group of inmates and guards. It’ll be us, soon enough.”

            Crawford looked sick. “My God…”

            “Come on, let’s get to it. If we’re lucky, we can make enough first to keep our kids from having to join up.” Hawkins started sweeping.

            Choking down bile, Crawford joined him.

Rex Caleval lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, where he spent twenty years as an air traffic controller. Always an avid reader with story ideas popping into his head, he decided to try writing a few, and has been pleased to find that some people like them. His stories have been published by or are upcoming in Every Day Fiction, Antipodean SF and Medusa’s Laugh.

If, according to my mother, a metallic spoon can be utilized to kill – 
So can your fore-finger. 
The key is to envision the first digit on your dominant hand as a shank. 
My mother made the mistake of envisioning it as a sword. 
Short handle, long vertical blade. It doesn’t work.
If you cannot envision it correctly, why bother?

The nail – preferably longer than the tip of your finger – can slice
Through the thickest of skins. 
The three bones, locked, transform into the shaft 
Of your DNA based, three and a half inch, shaved toothbrush. 
Warning: although Collagen is sturdier than cheap hardened latex,
The finger can fracture just as easily.

Aim for the section of skin – The neck
Between the esophagus and the Trapezius –
Where central arteries are easy to reach. Realistically. 
Prepare for blood to stick to the underneath of your nail.
For if you choose to contort your limb into a weapon,
You better plan to collect a smidgen of residue.

Tina Vorreyer is a graduate of Lawrence University in Appleton, Wisconsin, where she received her BA in Theatre Arts and minored in Creative Writing. She has been published in three anthologies titled, “Wisconsin’s Best Emerging Poets”, “Illinois’ Best Emerging Poets”, and “America’s Emerging Poets 2018”.

A road through falling autumn leaves, narrows quickly ‘tween the trees 
One path into two divide, right you’ll live, left you’ll die

            I sighed, and shivered. It was mid-November in Kentucky, and Pa wasn’t done chopping wood for winter. He said he couldn’t come with me anyway, but I couldn’t stray from the path. Pa had a talk with me a couple hours before, and it still reverberated in my skull. Shelby, my stupid, melon-headed, brother had been bitten by the witches fox—been cursed, and now Pa was sending me to make a trade.

            “Why can’t Shelby make the trade?” I pulled my flannel coat on with a pout.

            “If he goes, he ain’t comin’ back Charles,” Pa said, not looking at me. He just got done nailing Shelby’s window shut. “Hag put a curse on’em. Calls’em to her.”

            I came to a small clearing on the trail and stopped. Up ahead of me, I saw the trail splitting. The right was traveled, hardly any leaves littered the path, and travelers had hacked back some low hanging branches to make it easier to walk. The same couldn’t be said about the left road, if I could call it that. Overgrown and barely noticeable, there was a narrow trail between tall tree shoots and dying grass. When you reach the divide, go left. Pa’s voice echoed in my head like a shotgun.

            “Is’e gonna die?.”

            “If you ain’t careful,” Pa said beside me, staring out into the woods. I looked back and saw Shelby looking out his window, gaze duller than usual.

            “Why can’t you do it?” I turned back to Pa, waiting for his answer. He stared into the forest before us.

            “I need to be ‘ere protectin’ him,” he said, twitching his nose like he always does when he lies. He wasn’t gonna tell me the truth either, so I gave up and dropped it.

            I heard rustling and cracking around me as I walked ‘long the trail. I thought I heard a scream, like a woman in pain, but I knew it was only the foxes. That’s what Pa said they sounded like. Hearing them made me nervous; what if the witches fox was one of them? What if it came and bit me too?  What if I got cursed? I shook my head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. The sun was above the tree-line still, but I had to hurry. I had to make it to the Hollow and back before dark; it wasn’t safe otherwise. It wasn’t that safe now.

Take the left and rightly follow, ‘til you reach the witch’s hollow
At paths end on the right you’ll see, a hundred year old apple tree

            Winding along the forgotten trail, the forest grew denser, blacker. Shadows moved all around me, and I didn’t like it one bit.

            “Pa should be doin’ this.” I muttered.  

            “We gets one trade, boy. ‘Member that.”

            “Why can’t you use yours then?” We were closer to the woods now, but I was putting off the journey as long as possible. Pa just shook his head, eyes distant.

            “One trade boy, only one.”  

            He made the trade sound important. And here I was using mine up at the ripe old age of twelve because my little brother was a moron and got himself bit. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t really his fault; Pa said the witch must be looking for young blood, and her fox found it. Up ahead there was a big tree branch lying straight across the trail with a couple frogs croaking on top.

            “Stupid Shelby,” I muttered, kicking the rotten tree branch and scaring the frogs.

             My foot broke it open instead, stomping on moist, rotting wood—termites poured out. Brown bodied, black eyed, termites crawled out of the branch by the hundreds.  I jumped back, falling on my backside; the army of termites crawled toward me, enveloping everything in their path. The two frogs that jumped off were hopping away from the swarm, but were quickly covered. The termites made quick work of them, eating bones and all. I yelped, scrambling to my feet; these weren’t normal termites. As they got swarmed the path, I hauled myself up onto a low hanging branch just off the trail, hoping they wouldn’t follow me. I watched as the hoard crawled along the path, but didn’t break from the trail. I sat on the branch long after the termites had vanished from my line of sight, trying to slow my breathing. Is this what Pa meant by not careful? I hated this journey; I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. I was apparently the only one who could trade.

            “Shel…by” I froze.  That wasn’t my voice. That barely sounded like a voice at all, but I heard it. Didn’t I? It felt like it was whispered directly into the hollow of my ear. I shook my head and quickly dropped down from the tree branch. I made sure not to touch the log as I hurdled over it. Through the trees I could hear echoes of ‘Shelby’ winding through like a curse. I picked up my pace, hoping the trees would quit their whispering.

            But they were everywhere soon—from every angle. Every tree seemed to be saying Shelby, calling for my little brother. Calling him to the hollow, to the witch. Is this why he was looking to the forest when I left? Could he hear the trees? Could he hear them as clearly as I could?  Any direction I turned, the whispers got louder, closer. I couldn’t see nothing through the thickness of the forest, but everything seemed to grow darker.

            I ran. Through the wailing willows and shrieking sycamore I ran. I ran until the blood was pounding in my ears like a ghostly drum—until I thought my heart was gonna explode, and I’d be the next victim of the witch. The trail wound around and around ‘til I thought I was gonna be sick. Up Bunny Hill, through Crooked Creek, around Deadman’s Tree, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My chest was heaving. Wetness prickled the corner of my eyes. Choruses of trees, echoing calls for my brother fell to my back, but snaked into my ears. If I could just make it to the clearing—maybe then they would stop. Low hanging branches from Honey-locust trees caught my coat and hands, cutting the soft flesh. As the path grew even narrower, and the calls grew louder. I saw the clearing a few more feet up ahead of me. I swatted more thorny branches caught on my coat and struggled through the last bit of forest. The whispers started to subside, so I bolted straight for the clearing, praying they would slither out of my ears.

            Everything stopped when I tumbled out of the forest. I tripped over my feet, landing hard on my side, but got up, kept running. No way was I gonna let the voices catch up to me now. When I made it to the end of the trail, I stopped—eyes blurry, hands bloody, lungs burning. I fell to my knees and vomited the remains of my dinner.

            I really want to go home, I thought, wiping my mouth with my coat sleeve. Sitting on my knees, I stared at my hands—they weren’t as bad as I thought, but they still hurt. I didn’t have no bandages. I looked towards the west, the sun was setting through the thick forest canopy—I had to make a trade and get out fast. But how much farther was it? I looked up, and I saw it—the apple tree. 

From this tree hangs apples low, big and red and beating they grow
Pick the ripest and offer a trade, if it fits her right a deal is made

            I got up on shaky knees and tip-toed over to it, careful to not make a sound. I didn’t want a repeat of what had just happened. This was the biggest apple tree I’d ever seen, like it had been growing for centuries. It had a few apples, which was weird for mid-November. As I padded up to it, I noticed the smell—rotten. I heaved before covering my nose with my sleeve. How was I supposed to make a trade with one of these nasty things? Pa said I’d know by the feel, but one rotten apple feels like every other rotten apple—gross. I walked around the tree, trying to find the least disgusting apple, but with no luck. To my left was a small shack. The witch’s hollow, I thought. No turning back now. I saw small mounds of dirt piled close to the base of the tree, like someone had buried something. Planting seeds maybe? I ducked under some lower hanging branches to get a closer look, but stopped—I couldn’t waste much more time. And there was something wrong with this tree, besides the few gross apples— bark was too dark, leaves looked different, long, slender with spider web veins, and I doubted the dirt piles were for seeds. I crinkled up my nose and stepped back, closer to where the few remaining apples hung.  

            I decided to grab one. A once red apple, now rotted black and brown, oozed a dark, reddish liquid over my cut up hands. I threw it on the ground, disgusted, and grabbed another one. Same result. Another one. Same result.

            With shaking hands and frustration growing like roots in my belly, I found the most disfigured and rotten apple I could reach. It was drooping with softness and slime—two large holes on one side made it look like a skull. I took a deep breath, gagged, and grabbed it. Red liquid seeped onto my aching hands, and I squeezed it gently, splitting the top open releasing an awful smell. Then I felt it—the pulsing. This apple, or what was left of it, had a soft pulse, like a beating heart. This was the one. Pa was right—I would know.

            “How’s an apple gonna work?” I asked, interrupting Pa’s instructions. He sighed.

            “ Let’er take it from you,” he continued. “An’ she’ll tell you what to do.”

            “Accept the trade—no matter what. You only gets one.” This is the most I think I’d ever heard Pa talk at once. “She’ll give you ‘er red knife—”

            “But the apple—”

            “Temporary.” Pa ran a hand down his face, tired. If he was worried, he didn’t let on.

             “Listen to ‘er, Charles. Once a trade is agreed…” he paused, his gaze drifting to the forest once more—towards the trail I would travel. “You can’t go back.”   

            I looked back to the west and saw the sun had sunk even lower. I approached the shack with shallow breaths. Different flowers, herbs, and feathers hung on the walls of the rickety wooden building. Smoke was rising from a small chimney inside. There weren’t any windows on this side, so I couldn’t see in.  I could hear some chanting coming from the other side, but I couldn’t make out the words. As I came ‘round the corner of the shack, my legs froze—I couldn’t do it. I could still turn around. Shelby was probably lying anyway—he always lied ‘cuz he wanted attention.

            I turned away.

“What are you doin’ ‘ere?” a hoarse voice squawked behind me.

             I turned back around slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking. The witch was an old woman with an antler headdress on, a crown of sorts—buck antlers, six pointer. Feathers were dangling from the horns and from her hair, while some kind of flower was tucked behind her right ear. Wrinkles etched onto her, and loose flaps of scaly skin hung from her neck like she sewed it there herself. Her hands were knobby and long, with chipped, jagged nails on each finger. Gray, scraggly hair fell to her collar bone, thin, bloody lips set into a frown and cloudy eyes—the witch was blind. She took a step forward, her bare feet as knobby as her hands, blind eyes piercing into mine.

            “Well?” Her voice was like cinders and snakes.

            She wore a dark shawl that trailed down to her hole ridden, patchwork skirt around her shoulders and neck. Her arms were bare, covered with freckles, scars, and faint faded tattoos. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She took another step; in her right hand she held a twisted cane made from dark wood and stained with many streaks of red. I tried to find my voice, but I must’ve left it at the apple tree. Another step, she narrowed her eyes, creating a ripple effect with her wrinkles. My hands were shaking, red slime twitching, dripping onto my dirty shoes. She reached out her left hand; her nails looked like knives from my angle. She’s going for my throat. I could smell her stench now—she smelled like the apples, only stronger; I held my breath. Another step—I was within her grasp, and my legs were welded to the ground.

Run by the path you took, eyes ahead, behind don’t look
If she smells your pulse you can bet, if a heart she wants, a heart she’ll get

            “Come for trade, Charles?” she put her hand on the apple I held, feeling its pulse. She smiled, letting me see her teeth, or lack of—only black gums and rancid breath. I held back my urge to vomit whatever was left in my stomach, and shook my head vigorously, apple ooze bouncing with my movement. The woman made a huff or growl of some sort.

            “How…” my voice had wandered back from the tree. “My name…how did….” I trailed off.

            The sky was setting into navy, purple, and splashes of red in the west. I felt something brush up against my leg. I looked down and saw a fox with an all-black tail—her fox. I gasped. At least Shelby wasn’t lying. She smiled, looking me directly in my eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was blind anymore—her eyes knew…saw too much.

            The witch ignored my poor attempt of a question, and plucked the apple from my quivering hands. She held the rotten apple in her left hand for a moment, then she held out her cane to me. I hesitated, but took it as I watched her. She lifted up her shawl, and that’s when I saw the hole. She wasn’t wearing a shirt—her sickly gray, wrinkled skin hung on her body like a hangman’s noose. But there was a hole in her chest, gaping and oozing the same slime the apples created. Without a word, she stuffed the apple into the gaping hole and dropped her shawl, covering her chest up again. I felt bile rise in my throat, as she grabbed the cane from my outstretched hands.

            She stood still for a moment, frown still present on her face. From the corner of my eye I saw a rusty forty gallon drum filled to the brim with something I didn’t wanna know. It was set on a mesh gate of some sort, a fire burning under it. Guess that’s her caldron.

            “I’ll make your trade,” she said, jolting me from my thoughts. Some wrinkles seemed to disappear from her sagging skin. Her left eye started to regain some color—it looked almost blue.

            “But I’ll needs a replacement.” Her low hoarse voice sounded higher, less strained.

            “Re…replace…ment?” I choked out. The witch huffed, her thin lips still set in a frown.

            “Since I can’t have Shelby, I’ll needs someone else.” Her hair regained a slight blonde tint.

I looked at the sky once more. Darkness would set within the hour, and I needed to leave.

            “Tomorrow.”

            I snapped my head back down, looking at her.

            “Brings me one this time tomorrow. O’ else.” She thrust a red handled knife into my hands, and pulled back her lips, gums now filled with sharp white teeth. I swallowed hard, confused. What’s the knife for? Her eye started to cloud over, and wrinkles started to sag her face once more. The blonde tint in her hair faded.  I could smell the rot in her chest now—red slime dripped onto the ground around her feet. She couldn’t mean….My urge to gag increased. I stepped back, but didn’t turn around.

            “Tomorrow.”  Her voice got all hoarse and strained again. She pointed at the knife.

            “Bury it ‘neath yonder tree,” she continued, digging the air with her claws, “where the rest are.” The witch turned around, hobbling to the drum which had begun to boil. She used her staff as a stirring stick, causing some of the contents to splash out, onto the ground. I stood in my spot, still shocked at what she expected me to do. So that mound I saw under by the base of the tree….That was….No. No way.

            “What if…” I swallowed, cottonmouth making it difficult to talk. “What if…I don’t…?” The witch let out a soft cackle, a voice like praying frogs. I felt something sharp sink into my right hand, and jerked it away—too late. Her fox had bitten me between my thumb and pointer finger, leaving two small puncture holes filling with blood; it burned. I looked back at the witch who was smiling at me, blind eyes carving a hole in my chest. The curse…

            “Then your heart’ll do jus’ fine.” She ran her tongue over her lips, eyes narrowing, and turned back to her drum. She took the flower behind her ear and dropped it in the center of the swirling liquid; it sizzled for a moment before bursting into small, green flames, drowning in the vat. The antler headdress seemed to widen, the base pushing them outwards instead of curving them around and in. That’s when I heard it—the trees, the whispering.

            “Char…les…” it hissed, prickling the hairs on my neck. My arms had gooseflesh rising even though I was wearing a coat. Cold breath seeped into my skin as sweat dripped from my forehead, but my hand burned, like I stuck it directly into her boiling drum. Is this what Shelby had felt?  My right hand was trembling as the red handled knife slipped from my fingers, chest heaving. Tears prickled the corner of my eyes as my knees went weak and hit the ground, but I couldn’t let her see me cry.

            “I’d hurry if I’s was you,” she said, not bothering to look at me, her cane still stirring the bubbling liquid. She pulled it out briefly to slide a small bundle of sticks to the fire and stuck it back in, adding some fallen leaves and dirt to the brew. I clenched my teeth so tight they hurt, scooped up the knife, and stood back up. I cut a small piece of flannel from my coat, ripped it in half, balled it up, and stuffed each half in my ears. Hopefully it would keep the voices out for a while. Darkness had set; the only color left in the sky now was black. I had trouble seeing the stars through my faltering gaze. I stuffed the knife into my pocket and faced the swaying forest. Pa was right. I couldn’t turn back now.

Tia Cowger is a graduate of Eastern Illinois University. A poet at heart, her work has been published in Eastern’s literary journal The Vehicle, Bloodpuddles, Gone Lawn, and more.

The Forge

Sacrifice to rebirth to sacrifice
Raked ugly, spitting
In the great furnaces
In bellow deep breaths
Human bone-coal 
Shoveled in
Fed to the forge
A whispering cosmology of the divine 
A galaxy of embers
Smelted, rendered, reduced
A dance of spheres
Behind the thick heavy summer moon
Burning out the ghosts
From the swept hearth
Burning out the souls
As darkness falls
On the pyres
And the solitude of ash

Mud

The moon is hiding under the wind
Watching as the funeral pyres of latter day saints
Spit in the grounds of schools,
The greasy smoke makes it eerie.
Religion is lost
But the body is swift.
Above
The stars part only for aeroplanes
As they drop from the firmament to live amongst the mud. 
And the world does not notice
This earth world is a bone-vault
And does not notice,
It has shrunk,
Embalmed in a likeness of itself
A grinning richter.
The beehives have been emptied
Their tiny husks scattered to the wind
Funeral confetti
For this night of wands
And dark ritual.

Tim Downie describes himself as an actor, poet, and social activist. Although he has always written poetry, his main work has been writing for the theatre. His first play, The Dead Moon was commissioned and staged at the Aldeburgh Festival in the summer of 2008 (the first non-operatic play ever to be performed there.) As a playwright, his work has been performed at the Soho Theatre, Southwark Playhouse, The Kings Head and as part of the Offcut and London Bridge Festivals. In 2013 The Curse of Elizabeth Faulkner debuted at the Edinburgh fringe, which later transferred to London’s West End.

That wasn’t where the urn had been last night. Scott remembered putting it back on the fireplace mantel. He was sure of it. But there it was, sitting on the dining room table. Large and black, full of Joan’s ashes. He remembered taking it from the mantel and holding it while he watched the football game. Joan had always loved football. And yeah, okay, he’d been drinking a little, but he knew he had put it back. Scott picked it up. It was cold, like Joan always was. He put it back on the mantel before going to work.

When Scott got home, the urn was still where he had left it. Scott went to it, and carried it with him to their bedroom so he could read to Joan as he had done for the past three months since she died. As he walked with it, he noticed it seemed to be slightly larger. But, no. That couldn’t be. It must’ve seemed that way to him because he’d been thinking about it all day. That’s all. Surely. After reading another chapter in her favorite western, Scott set his alarm for work and closed his eyes.

Behind his lids were troubled visions, full of cars driving too fast, and snow falling too thick. Joan was with him. Telling him to go faster, faster. She liked the way the snow looked on the windshield. Made her think of Star Trek. Warp speed. The semi in front of them swerved. Black Ice. “Faster, Scott,” Joan said. “Warp speed.”

Scott’s eyes opened wide with his alarm. He was sweating and his mouth was full of sour breath. The urn was gone. It was back on the fireplace. Smaller now. Too small. No way could Joan fit inside such a small tomb. Scott set the urn on the coffee table and watched it until the sun went down, ignoring the worried calls from work and friends. It didn’t move. Scott closed his eyes, still on the couch.

Joan was in the passenger seat, her skin the color of ash. Her lips bruised like an old plum. “Slow down, Scott. You’re scaring me.” Joan said. “The ice, Scott. We’re going to crash!” Their car swerved into the semi.

Scott rolled over on the couch with the moon still high in the sky. The urn was massive. It bent the wood of the coffee table under its weight. He had to carry it to the kitchen table with both hands, staggering. No way could Joan fill up such a large tomb. He tried to sleep, but as he neared the realm of dreams he convulsed back into consciousness, and watched the urn.  At dawn, Scott picked up the book and didn’t stop reading until its conclusion, and the urn was back to its original weight and size. He returned to bed.

Joan screamed at him. “You need help Scott!” The snow on the windshield was ash. Her ashes. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut. She was driving, taking him to the hospital. The one in the mountains. The one you can’t talk about. “Maybe this can work if you’d just get some help.” Scott didn’t need help. He needed her to pay attention to the semi, swerving. Black ice.

Scott opened his eyes when he heard the sound of the urn crashing onto the bricks below the mantel. He went to get his love’s ashes back into a safe place, but there was no broken urn. Just four identical urns, lined up on the mantel. But he knew the real one by touch. That cold, black ice, touch. He held it to his face and whispered apologies to her. Accusations. Why did she haunt him this way?

Why had she needed to drive him to the hospital during a blizzard? Why had she urged him to drive so fast?

Scott slept. Or, at least he thought he was sleeping. He was back in the car. Joan was crying in the driver’s seat, her broken eye and bruised lips trembling. She flinched when he pointed towards the snow. Like Star Trek, he told her. Warp Speed, she agreed.

Scott was not sleeping, he knew that now as he traced the lid of the urn. Scott hadn’t slept in a long time. 

Katie Collazo lives in Seattle Washington where she moved, after twenty years of small town living in Oklahoma, with enough money for one months rent, four suitcases full of Stephen King books, and a suit of armor. (It’s aluminum). That was six years ago; and although she still has the suit of armor, she also has more Stephen King books, a husband, and three cats. She thinks the move worked out well. She recently got her associates degree in art and currently works at a small publishing company which allows her to keep her green hair and inspires her every day.

The last bus to G scuttled past him like an over-fed kitten. He could have run behind it. But he chose to stay back and see it disappear into the darkness of the hills. A few shops were still open near the police beat-house. A lonely policeman sat guard at the station with an AK 47, looking bored and sleepy. He had often toyed with the male instinct of fondling the rifle, as he would whenever he saw a voluptuous woman. He used to tell her these weird but honest details of his thoughts during the beginning of their relationship.  She was incredulous at first.  Once he told her, how he mentally made love to one of those wiry Srilankan women whom he had met at the juice shop, where it was innocuously scribbled: “All Kinds of Juices Available”.  To his surprise and exasperation, she burst into tears. He thought better not to tell her what goes on in his mind. Those thoughts were his, entirely.  He pulled a zipper on his thoughts after that.

A shopkeeper pulled down his shutter, which rattled all the way down in the darkness, switched off the lights and walked away noisily. The darkness was a sight. It blindfolded him and he had to peer into its hurt self to make sense of his path. He had never seen such a deep darkness in his life. He was not scared of it, but there was something densely stifling about it. It was like a mob, crowding your senses and smothering you at times. Then it took you on flow with its dark rhetoric. Detesting its ebony dark matter, he longed for the first ray of morning light on moonless days.

The moon was capable of a whipping up a melodrama whenever it appeared. Their house, where they used to stay together during the first two years of their marriage, faced the seven, blue hills. Many a day, the moon rose from the hills majestically, casting a white gauze-net on the dark, fish-like foliage. Both of them sat in the balcony, sipping wine and she smoked with the balcony lights switched off. She loved the emancipation of smoke rings she blew.  She always told him making a smoke ring made her feel like a man, but she didn’t want anyone to see her smoke. While she sat there staring at the moon, he fried dried meat strips in an open skillet.

While he waded through the darkness, his feet heavily plodded the squelchy, damp streets,  and there were no street lights. Each and every star grimaced with an unusual twinkle deepening the spookiness. He didn’t have a torch with him, but the sky contoured  the edges of the black, stray clouds by salvaging a wee little bit of greyness left behind by the day. Though he was wary of manholes in the moonless night, he paddled the darkness with a knapsack on his shoulders,  and instinctively retraced his steps back to the house, which was once upon  a time ‘theirs’. It was hers now, solitary and  shielded by the lovely blue hills.

He hesitated before knocking, and first, he thought of crouching near the door for the rest of the night till the next Sumo scheduled early in the morning. But, he wanted to be inside to feel the warmth of their hearth,  his lost paradise, which he called his home once. He knocked gently, and he heard her cautious footsteps.

“Sa va? , Who is that?” She called out.

“It’s me”, he always talked to her in English, all their ‘dangling conversations’ were in a language that gave them a degree and fed them.

“Holy Mother of God! You missed the bus?”, she opened the door and asked.

“Yes, I couldn’t make it, probably I will take the early morning Sumo to G. Thank God, the train to the University is only day after tomorrow”

He saw her face in the pale zero watt light that was lit in the prayer room. Her eyes were swollen. She had been crying, and she hesitated to switch on the light. He sat down on the sofa and left his luggage in a corner. They just had a bedroom and he didn’t want to reclaim his lost space in the house.  

“Aren’t you hungry?” No one knew better than her that nothing excited him like food.

Not waiting for an answer, she walked into the kitchen, switched on the stove, and placed  a skillet on fire. He sensed that she was relieved to have him back in the house. He never thought about it, but he sensed how lonely she had been. In the hills, the entire town turns dark around six in the evening and people huddle into their homes when the last bit of sun sank in the horizon.  He loved to roam around in the twilight, and that habit used to make her nervous. Her fears were allayed  when once he was mistaken to be a Bangladeshi migrant and a  group of garrulous tribal men questioned him armed with machetes and sickles. He escaped his with life due to the fortuitous appearance of his landlord who explained who he was to them and saved him from blows.

Another incident which left them shaken was the night of the Hundred Drums Festival which occurred in the guise of a tourist routine in November.

She appeared with a cup of steaming tea and asked him, “Do you remember the Hundred Drums Festival night?”

Many a time they were connected by the analogy of their thoughts, they could sync in their thoughts almost at the same time. One of them think a thought, the other one would start laughing and they knew that they had the same thoughts many a time. He started laughing, and she frowned into the depths of the night.

“That day scared me out of senses. We didn’t sleep for a week , remember?”

He stopped laughing, he felt the chill of an AK 47 on his temple. He felt the mixed feeling of a heart-quaking fear merged with the desire to fondle the gun. It was on his insistence that both of them ventured into the deep hamlet that was just a stone’s throw away from the Hundred Drums festival venue. The previous year, during the same festival, his friend took him to a shanty and treated him with home-made rice beer, and there he got drunk . The village nokma (head) also fed him to a feast of sticky rice and a pungent and spicy dried fish curry called nakham. On that fateful day, he took her to the same shanty, but she felt something uncanny and spooky about the place. He was quite annoyed with her for cautioning him and mothering him in ways which were devoid of any reason.Even before he could express his acerbity; two young, armed men came out of the shanty, which once doled out rice beer and sticky rice to him and whisked them into the dark dingy room inside. In the darkness, he could  smell the musty and rancid odour of fear. They were pushed down to a dingy bamboo floor, and they could see many captives like them. In the dim light of a kerosene lamp, he could see the mortified eyes of a  Naga girl, who was guarded by  a gun-carrying militant, who forced her on the ground with his knee. There were also a  couple of Nepalis and  a Jaintia couple who were dumbstruck by fear . The militant leader, the man who sat on a wooden-log in the center, looked at them with a  smug, intimidating stare.  He was visibly angry and shouted orders at his men while giving a long lecture on how ‘outsiders’ pollute the tribal villages of the hills. They waited with eyes downcast and took care not look in his eyes and provoke him. They waited in the shanty for  many hours and at the end of it, the leader whispered something to his men. One of them took out a whip and started whipping the captives. One.. two… three…. The leader counted with a glint of retribution in his eyes as the scourged ones cried out loud. Women were whipped five times. When it was his turn, he glanced at her, startled. She knew that he found even a pin-prick unbearable. He didn’t cry out, but he was visibly shaking and he convulsed involuntarily at every whiplash. She couldn’t bear the tearing pain, she wasn’t as brave as him, and she cried out in pain when the lashes hissed and stung her skin. When she was done with, she flopped  on the floor like a dishevelled toy.

Before the police came, they were let off in the darkness, and they ran for their lives.

He remembered that she was shaking all night, till he held her close to his chest and glanced out of their window panes with fear. The next day, she was taken to the doctor as she bled profusely. They told him she went through an abortion the previous night. They laid her on a table and scooped out a red-veined crescent from her womb, a-month-old sexless slice of flesh which clung to her desperately even after its last spasm of life was scraped off from her. They clenched the forceps into her and wrenched the foetus out, and then, they cleaned her up rather shoddily. She wasn’t brave there as well, and she called out his name and cried.

She read his thoughts, as usual: “It is good that we don’t have the child with us. It would have been tougher for him.”

“Him?”, he asked. She smiled wistfully.  

He didn’t touch the tea, dried meat was sizzling on the fire. There will be some fresh bread around, she always purchased freshly baked bread from Uncle Lobos. She loved the cinnamon flavoured one, she thought it smelled heavenly. Something like manna, she thought. She brought along a plateful of dried chicken strips and some cinnamon bread. She opened a bottle of Sula,  and emptied his untouched tea into the sink.

She toasted , “ In the memory of our old days, when we were mighty drunks, nasty smokers and reluctant dopeys.”

She raised her glass and so did he. Somewhere the heavy cloud that hung between them slowly lifted its veil and they talked of the good old days. He loved her draw the cigarette deep in and  blow it out with style. It looked like a statement and that always made him laugh. They finished the wine between them and they were quite tipsy.  

For the first time that night, she asked him about his lover in his university. He dreaded this question, but alcohol made him brave and less inimical. He could see that she was relaxed too. Alcohol did this magic to them, they were calm in its grip, more relaxed and honest.

After a brief stint in the Northeastern foot hills of the Himalayas where she was working in the university, he went back to his university in the South where he was continuing his research. He was on a fellowship and he rented out a house, for absolute privacy and expected her to join him during her vacations. It was then S joined his university. S was his dorm mate in his school and they were thick friends till one day, in their 9^th grade, when they were both ill and confined to their dorm, they stripped and danced enjoying themselves. S said they were closet gays. He hadn’t talked to S since then. S was back in his life. Once during her vacation, she found that S was living with him as his partner. In fact, even before she asked him, he confessed, expecting a big drama. He didn’t want her to leave him and he even promised that he will severe his relationship with S. She cried out in the same manner when she was whipped by the militants and cleaned up in the clinic. Then she packed up and left, telling him that it was over. And the, it was over.

The separation proceedings began, and it ended after a couple of years with him visiting the hills again to pack up his books and other precious pieces of his past life he left behind in their house. He sent all his books to his university in the South, and missed his last bus to G. And here he was telling her that S moved in with him as he got his quarters in the university. Though the university was agog with rumours about them, it was also unconventional a space which let them stay together. She looked unperturbed. She got up, piled up the used plates and moped the table clean. She gave him a blanket and a pillow, he slid into the TV room couch and slept. He woke up after an hour or so feeling terribly lonely in the darkness. By then she had already moved into her bedroom. She was snoring gently and her chest heaving up and down like a trapped bird. He felt a pang, slid into her bed and embraced her. She turned to his side and snuggled to his chest, like in olden days. A wounded bird, she looked so delicate and brittle. He thought of S for a while, and held her tightly, and slowly relaxed his grip. He was comfortable with her lying next to him, her body rocked by her inebriated, yet, gentle snores. For a moment she meant a world to him, though he knew that their universes were far away. For once, he thought of getting back to her, but then he wondered what she did all these days without him.  Did she take a lover? Or did she turn religious? He felt a disconnect with her life. His thoughts took him in their grip and gently rocked him to sleep and he drifted into a dream, dreaming something simple, pure and pleasant. He felt no desire, but a tenderness and an urge to protect her. She too slept peacefully near him, like a fragile dream.

She woke him up in the morning. She reminded it was time to go. He had nothing to pack, his knapsack remained unpacked. He got ready with a heaviness. She made him some tea, he was so parched with the hangover. It was quite foggy early in the morning, with a chill drowsing under the blanket of fog. After he finished his tea, she waited silently for him to leave. He got up and hugged her, “I am sorry”. He felt her unforgiving heart beat fast, and faster.

It was meaningless, but he had to say sorry. She stood there like a ragdoll. He never for once thought of her agency, her feelings, her lonely life. Now, all of a sudden, he never wanted to be part of her sadness which dispersed like the dense darkness on the hills. He walked down the granite steps, into the mist that engulfed him. Somewhere she would be watching him walk away from her life, he knew and he didn’t want to go back to the helplessness of the hills. The hills heaved a heavy sigh of smog in the darkness, and he plodded through his blindness carefully, hoping to reach the main road fast. On the road, he saw the fog light of the Sumo,that blinded him for a minute. He was at last free of the darkness and smog. But as he left, he felt the hills witness his plight mistily,  as the sun rose from the clouds with the red-veins of a  torn foetus .

Babitha Marina Justin is from Kerala, South India and a Pushcart prize nominee, 2018. Her poems have appeared in Eclectica , Esthetic Apostle, The Paragon Press, as well as many other journals. Her first collection of poetry, Of Fireflies, Guns and the Hills, was published by the Writers Workshop in 2015. She is also waiting to debut as a novelist with ‘Maria’s Swamp: The Bigness of Small Lies’.