Recluse
By Scott Dilworth Johnson
I haven't left my house in 24 years. No one has entered, nor ever will. Food and supplies are delivered to my airlock once a month. Windows, walls, foundation - all hermetically sealed.
Yet she got in, and nested under my bed.
And now a greenish-black patch of necrotic flesh has blossomed where she bit my hand.
I will slowly die a dreadful death. With some perverse pleasure in knowing that my killer was a Brown Recluse spider.
- - -
Scott Dilworth Johnson lives in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. He holds a B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania, and makes his living as a software developer. When not writing code, Scott might be running, hiking, taking photos or working on a short story. He has short stories published or forthcoming in Short, Fast and Deadly, Eclectic Flash, Weirdyear and others.
By Scott Dilworth Johnson
I haven't left my house in 24 years. No one has entered, nor ever will. Food and supplies are delivered to my airlock once a month. Windows, walls, foundation - all hermetically sealed.
Yet she got in, and nested under my bed.
And now a greenish-black patch of necrotic flesh has blossomed where she bit my hand.
I will slowly die a dreadful death. With some perverse pleasure in knowing that my killer was a Brown Recluse spider.
- - -
Scott Dilworth Johnson lives in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. He holds a B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania, and makes his living as a software developer. When not writing code, Scott might be running, hiking, taking photos or working on a short story. He has short stories published or forthcoming in Short, Fast and Deadly, Eclectic Flash, Weirdyear and others.
Barbaric Heart
By Chris D'Errico
Today no tanks are advancing, no troops are marching, and new grass fills the fields. Everyone on top is enamored by the modest ones filling in the bottom, all voices counted and heard by the song each sings. No longer do chainsaws butcher pristine forests. Trades-people sculpt glorious temples dedicated to the poetry of open space. Levees are built to withstand any tempest. Philosophers, scientists revel in mutual respect and playful irreverence, offering only constructive criticism, asserting undeniable value. Gurus, gods and goddesses, all banded together, strum their holy chords, uplifting the downtrodden. Doctors enjoy endless holidays, as all clinics and hospitals have closed down for a lack of business. Lawyers are cheerfully beating each other up on public golf courses. Celebrities, politicians, and other pop culture icons are no longer snarling and slobbering for attention, but instead relegated to backyard doghouses where they sit and harmlessly lick themselves. The wicked and vengeful are reduced to mumbling, stuttering, drooling idiots, full of bliss and honey. All those who felt so unfulfilled, who were kicked and ignored, creatures whose mere presence, for some, blotted out the sun, who lost their souls shuffling across the low earth—all the walking dead with stone hearts have exploded, birthing mysterious galaxies, pulsating with bright, rainbow-cores. Darkness plays ball with itself in some irrelevant corner in the League of Abysmal Foul-Ups. Abundant bees collect nectar from oleanders overgrown on sun-drenched steps of
Everywhere. Birds soar over calming seas, warming sands. A runt kitten leaps gracefully from a dumpster, her silver coat shining regally under a cloud-free, salmon-colored sun with a dinner of unblemished meat in her mouth. There are no more zoos, and the animals we have all agreed to let live, run as wild as their nature demands. The animals we have all agreed to eat, get eaten. Housebroken dictators, adopted as difficult pets, are spayed and neutered appropriately. No dogma of hollow gluttony, no ravenous consumption of empty doctrine. We all are following our own benign and absurd agendas. Jezebels, done with hunting feral pleasures, are faithful to their own hearts. Lotharios, all their lives flooded with cheap alibis, come up and breathe in the clear air with no need for remorse. All actors and artists, writers and musicians are no longer needed. They have passed on but are confirmed to be happy, while leaving no trace of imperfection behind, without so much as a whiff of a doubt or despair. Oblivion’s so close you can feel it breathing hot down your neck. Hear it grunting, you can smell its untamed breath.
- - -
Chris D'Errico writes, plays blues harmonica and works as an exterminator in Las Vegas, Nevada. Sometimes he fronts the experimental funk/blues project Sidewalk Beggar.
By Chris D'Errico
Today no tanks are advancing, no troops are marching, and new grass fills the fields. Everyone on top is enamored by the modest ones filling in the bottom, all voices counted and heard by the song each sings. No longer do chainsaws butcher pristine forests. Trades-people sculpt glorious temples dedicated to the poetry of open space. Levees are built to withstand any tempest. Philosophers, scientists revel in mutual respect and playful irreverence, offering only constructive criticism, asserting undeniable value. Gurus, gods and goddesses, all banded together, strum their holy chords, uplifting the downtrodden. Doctors enjoy endless holidays, as all clinics and hospitals have closed down for a lack of business. Lawyers are cheerfully beating each other up on public golf courses. Celebrities, politicians, and other pop culture icons are no longer snarling and slobbering for attention, but instead relegated to backyard doghouses where they sit and harmlessly lick themselves. The wicked and vengeful are reduced to mumbling, stuttering, drooling idiots, full of bliss and honey. All those who felt so unfulfilled, who were kicked and ignored, creatures whose mere presence, for some, blotted out the sun, who lost their souls shuffling across the low earth—all the walking dead with stone hearts have exploded, birthing mysterious galaxies, pulsating with bright, rainbow-cores. Darkness plays ball with itself in some irrelevant corner in the League of Abysmal Foul-Ups. Abundant bees collect nectar from oleanders overgrown on sun-drenched steps of
Everywhere. Birds soar over calming seas, warming sands. A runt kitten leaps gracefully from a dumpster, her silver coat shining regally under a cloud-free, salmon-colored sun with a dinner of unblemished meat in her mouth. There are no more zoos, and the animals we have all agreed to let live, run as wild as their nature demands. The animals we have all agreed to eat, get eaten. Housebroken dictators, adopted as difficult pets, are spayed and neutered appropriately. No dogma of hollow gluttony, no ravenous consumption of empty doctrine. We all are following our own benign and absurd agendas. Jezebels, done with hunting feral pleasures, are faithful to their own hearts. Lotharios, all their lives flooded with cheap alibis, come up and breathe in the clear air with no need for remorse. All actors and artists, writers and musicians are no longer needed. They have passed on but are confirmed to be happy, while leaving no trace of imperfection behind, without so much as a whiff of a doubt or despair. Oblivion’s so close you can feel it breathing hot down your neck. Hear it grunting, you can smell its untamed breath.
- - -
Chris D'Errico writes, plays blues harmonica and works as an exterminator in Las Vegas, Nevada. Sometimes he fronts the experimental funk/blues project Sidewalk Beggar.
Luigi's Place
By Laurie Wipperfurth
Luigi’s is the best in town for Italian food. It’s a small neighborhood restaurant and not many of the uptown crowd know it. Lisa Garbani was new to the city and I’d wanted to show off. When I asked her out, I decided none of those up-scale fusion places would do. I wanted to take her to an authentic little Italian joint where the tablecloths are red checked and they still put candles in old Chianti bottles.
“Now, don’t expect much for atmosphere,” I explained taking her arm to help her up the curb, “This place is right out of the 50’s.”
“Sounds nice,” she said, her eyes twinkling in the street light. “I’m Italian you know.”
I nearly laughed. Garbani? You think? It was why I chose the damned place! But of course she was making small talk and I needed to keep focused on my own lively banter. I really liked Lisa Garbani.
The place was warm and steamy after the cold night air. Inside there was barely space for eight tables and the small bar. The maître d cum waiter took our coats and hung them from an old wooden coat tree crowded in next to the door. He seated us by the window and we settled in with a mellow red wine and some crusty bread.
We were chatting away like old friends before long. In fact, until a burly man in a dark suit at the next table stood up suddenly, I hadn’t even noticed the other patrons.
The woman tending the bar stopped wiping a drink tumbler and disappeared into the back. Two men got off their bar stools, laid down small bills to cover their drinks, and slipped out of the place. That left the table next to us.
“But Big Tony…” a plaintive voice began, trailing off to a whisper.
I’m not an eaves dropper. In fact, I try not to hear other peoples’ conversation. I don’t like to intrude. But the man who was standing, had placed himself between us and the table hosting ‘Big Tony’. It was as if he were forming a wall with his bulk. I decided a bit of eaves dropping might be in order.
“Now, now Sal,” replied a much deeper, mellower voice, “Haven’t we been through this before?”
“Emm, Lisa,” I interrupted, for she was telling me brightly about the apartment she’d found just blocks from her office. Trying not to frighten her, I said as pleasantly as possible, “We could try a different restaurant –if you’d like.”
“Oh, no Jeff,” she replied quickly, “This place is adorable.” Then she continued her description of ten foot ceilings and crown moldings.
The waiter was standing well back near the kitchen, gnashing his teeth.
“You know what comes next, Sal,” said Big Tony, and he snapped his fingers. Most people can’t make such a sharp, crisp sound from thumb and middle finger, but Big Tony did. I winced.
Another man came out of the back room and hauled Sal off his chair. He dragged the cringing Sal back behind a wine colored velvet curtain that screened the kitchen door. Then I distinctly heard several blows to a jaw, an eye, and probably a solar plexus, each followed by a groan of pain. I just held my breath and watched Lisa’s face. How could the girl ignore the sound of a man being beaten, just feet away?
“Maybe we should leave,” I whispered desperately. I was sweating.
“No, silly,” she replied, “It’s a very nice spot and they make Stoccafisso. Only my grandmother makes that anymore.”
I shifted uneasily as Sal was helped back to the table, a red-checkered napkin held to his eye. Chairs scraped the floor as Big Tony’s party prepared to leave. I glanced over, saw one of the large men dust off Sal’s jacket, and nod him to the door. Sal left quickly.
Big Tony paid up and as he sauntered toward the coat rack, he stopped by our table, leaning in, “What a lovely young couple! Sorry for the disturbance, your dinner is on me.” He winked at my date, then he and his entourage left.
As the cold air wafted around us through the closing door, I blew out a breath. “I can’t believe what happened here!” I stuttered.
She twinkled at me again. “Oh, it was nothing,” she replied, “Uncle Tony always insists on picking up the tab.”
- - -
I have a B.A. in English from the University of Wisconsin. I’m currently writing an historical/adventure novel. I’ve had a few short stories published in Wired Ruby magazine.
By Laurie Wipperfurth
Luigi’s is the best in town for Italian food. It’s a small neighborhood restaurant and not many of the uptown crowd know it. Lisa Garbani was new to the city and I’d wanted to show off. When I asked her out, I decided none of those up-scale fusion places would do. I wanted to take her to an authentic little Italian joint where the tablecloths are red checked and they still put candles in old Chianti bottles.
“Now, don’t expect much for atmosphere,” I explained taking her arm to help her up the curb, “This place is right out of the 50’s.”
“Sounds nice,” she said, her eyes twinkling in the street light. “I’m Italian you know.”
I nearly laughed. Garbani? You think? It was why I chose the damned place! But of course she was making small talk and I needed to keep focused on my own lively banter. I really liked Lisa Garbani.
The place was warm and steamy after the cold night air. Inside there was barely space for eight tables and the small bar. The maître d cum waiter took our coats and hung them from an old wooden coat tree crowded in next to the door. He seated us by the window and we settled in with a mellow red wine and some crusty bread.
We were chatting away like old friends before long. In fact, until a burly man in a dark suit at the next table stood up suddenly, I hadn’t even noticed the other patrons.
The woman tending the bar stopped wiping a drink tumbler and disappeared into the back. Two men got off their bar stools, laid down small bills to cover their drinks, and slipped out of the place. That left the table next to us.
“But Big Tony…” a plaintive voice began, trailing off to a whisper.
I’m not an eaves dropper. In fact, I try not to hear other peoples’ conversation. I don’t like to intrude. But the man who was standing, had placed himself between us and the table hosting ‘Big Tony’. It was as if he were forming a wall with his bulk. I decided a bit of eaves dropping might be in order.
“Now, now Sal,” replied a much deeper, mellower voice, “Haven’t we been through this before?”
“Emm, Lisa,” I interrupted, for she was telling me brightly about the apartment she’d found just blocks from her office. Trying not to frighten her, I said as pleasantly as possible, “We could try a different restaurant –if you’d like.”
“Oh, no Jeff,” she replied quickly, “This place is adorable.” Then she continued her description of ten foot ceilings and crown moldings.
The waiter was standing well back near the kitchen, gnashing his teeth.
“You know what comes next, Sal,” said Big Tony, and he snapped his fingers. Most people can’t make such a sharp, crisp sound from thumb and middle finger, but Big Tony did. I winced.
Another man came out of the back room and hauled Sal off his chair. He dragged the cringing Sal back behind a wine colored velvet curtain that screened the kitchen door. Then I distinctly heard several blows to a jaw, an eye, and probably a solar plexus, each followed by a groan of pain. I just held my breath and watched Lisa’s face. How could the girl ignore the sound of a man being beaten, just feet away?
“Maybe we should leave,” I whispered desperately. I was sweating.
“No, silly,” she replied, “It’s a very nice spot and they make Stoccafisso. Only my grandmother makes that anymore.”
I shifted uneasily as Sal was helped back to the table, a red-checkered napkin held to his eye. Chairs scraped the floor as Big Tony’s party prepared to leave. I glanced over, saw one of the large men dust off Sal’s jacket, and nod him to the door. Sal left quickly.
Big Tony paid up and as he sauntered toward the coat rack, he stopped by our table, leaning in, “What a lovely young couple! Sorry for the disturbance, your dinner is on me.” He winked at my date, then he and his entourage left.
As the cold air wafted around us through the closing door, I blew out a breath. “I can’t believe what happened here!” I stuttered.
She twinkled at me again. “Oh, it was nothing,” she replied, “Uncle Tony always insists on picking up the tab.”
- - -
I have a B.A. in English from the University of Wisconsin. I’m currently writing an historical/adventure novel. I’ve had a few short stories published in Wired Ruby magazine.
The Subject
T.S. Charles
Dr. Olin stared down at subject 313223’s file.
03/31/2003- Mr. Halderson, with his wife in his company, finalized his contract to have his head cryogenically frozen.
06/19/2010- Mr. Halderson, a 48-year-old Caucasian male is pronounced dead from acute cardiac arrest. His body is immediately transported to CryoGens Incorporated.
06/20/2010- Head is successfully removed and cryogenically frozen. DNA samples are collected and stored separately.
06/21/2010-02/24/2143- Through routine scans and lab tests, the subject’s head has revealed zero cell deterioration.
02/25/2143- After reviewing Dr. Olin’s manuscript entitled, “Cell Deterioration and the New Tomorrow”, a panel of leading scientists’ decides to attempt revival on Subject 313223. Dr. Olin is personally invited to be Subject 313223’s Primary Revival Physician.
03/03/2143- Dr. Olin places an order to use Subject 313223’s DNA to cultivate a biologically engineered transplant body. Through recent advances in accelerated cell development, the harvested body should be ready in six to twelve months.
01/07/2144- Dr. Olin is pleased to note that the transplant body is fully grown and ready for use.
01/28/2144- The revival process begins. The subject’s head is prepped along with the biologically engineered transplant body. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow.
01/29/2144- After re-attaching the head, and administering a full blood transfusion, the subject is placed on life-support for precautionary measures. Although still in the preliminary stages, Dr. Olin rules the surgery a success.
02/3/2144- An infection was discovered at the site of the re-attachment. Due to the subject’s vulnerable immune system, Dr. Olin prescribes a heavy dose of antibiotics and has the subject placed in an isolation chamber.
02/7/2144- The infection is beginning to clear up. Optimism is beginning to grow after the comatose subject shows signs of minute brain activity.
02/7/2143-02/14/2144- There have been no recent changes in responsiveness or brain activity in the subject. Exploratory surgery is scheduled.
02/15/2144-Surgury revealed minor swelling in the temporal and parietal lobes. Steps were taken to alleviate the swelling.
02/16/2144-02/28/2144- Vast improvement has been noted. Subject is showing signs of movement in his appendages and increased brain activity.
03/4/2144- A breakthrough has been noted. Unlike the previous 313,222 subjects, Subject 313223 was the first to show signs of REM sleep.
03/17/2144- It’s a miracle. Subject has awoken from the coma and, although unable to communicate, is observed as moderately responsive. Dr. Olin starts the subject on a trial drug, Memrothral, and an intense regimen of therapy and cognitive rehabilitation.
04/12/2144- Another breakthrough is noted. The subject said the word, “Good”, after being asked how he was feeling.
05/07/2144- Subject is displaying vastly improved fine motor skills and is now speaking fluently. Still no memories reported.
06/01/2144- Through intense rehabilitation and with the aid of crutches, the subject is able to stand independently for the first time.
07/04/2143- Subject is able to walk without the use of any adaptive equipment. Even though the subject is progressing beyond expectations physically, Dr. Olin is discouraged by the subject’s cognitive development.
08/08/2144- During music therapy, subject is able to complete a previously unlearned song after only hearing the first few notes played by the therapist. Follow-up revealed that the subject took piano lessons from ages six to thirteen.
08/09/2144- Dr. Olin increases the subject’s dose of Memrothral, and orders an intense regimen of exposure therapy, with hopes that through familiarization, more memories will be recalled.
08/09/2144—09/08/2144- Dr. Olin is impressed with the subject’s recent improvement in all areas, including memory development. Talks of discharge are beginning to circulate.
09/12/2144- Subject appears agitated and request to speak with Dr. Olin.
File in hand, Dr. Olin, briskly entered the subject’s room. Over the past several days, the subject had been recalling memories at a rapidly progressive rate. Dr. Olin, out of personal curiosity, hoped that this day would be the one where he could ask the big question. The type of question, man had been seeking the answer for since the dawn of time.
The instant their eyes met, the subject angrily shouted, “Look, I’ve had enough of all your treatments. Day after day, I’ve been doing your treatments without complaint and, to be honest, I’m tired and I want to see my wife. Why hasn’t anyone called her?”
Dr. Olin was both shocked and terrified at the same time. He nervously asked, “What is your last memory?”
“It all came flooding back to me last night. I remember my childhood, my kids, my marriage, and how I got here in the first place.”
“How’s that?” Dr. Olin asked curiously.
“I started feeling tightness in my chest and then I just blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that. Now, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I really miss my family and I’d like to see them as soon as possible.”
No longer able to look the subject in the eyes, a dejected Dr. Olin turned from the subject and left the room.
Confused, the subject shouted, “Hey where are you going? Am I going to be able to see them, or what?”
Dr. Olin paid no attention. He kept on walking down the hall, perseverating over the meaning of his discovery. Did he really just hear what he thought he had? Was his revival treatment the only attainable way to experience an afterlife? And how soon could he sign his family up to be cryogenically frozen?
- - -
T.S. Charles is currently working as an Associate Editor for Dark Moon Digest - The Horror Fiction Quarterly. T.S. Charles has had three short stories recently accepted for publication. T.S. Charles currently resides in West Virginia with his wife and two children.
T.S. Charles
Dr. Olin stared down at subject 313223’s file.
###
03/31/2003- Mr. Halderson, with his wife in his company, finalized his contract to have his head cryogenically frozen.
06/19/2010- Mr. Halderson, a 48-year-old Caucasian male is pronounced dead from acute cardiac arrest. His body is immediately transported to CryoGens Incorporated.
06/20/2010- Head is successfully removed and cryogenically frozen. DNA samples are collected and stored separately.
06/21/2010-02/24/2143- Through routine scans and lab tests, the subject’s head has revealed zero cell deterioration.
02/25/2143- After reviewing Dr. Olin’s manuscript entitled, “Cell Deterioration and the New Tomorrow”, a panel of leading scientists’ decides to attempt revival on Subject 313223. Dr. Olin is personally invited to be Subject 313223’s Primary Revival Physician.
03/03/2143- Dr. Olin places an order to use Subject 313223’s DNA to cultivate a biologically engineered transplant body. Through recent advances in accelerated cell development, the harvested body should be ready in six to twelve months.
01/07/2144- Dr. Olin is pleased to note that the transplant body is fully grown and ready for use.
01/28/2144- The revival process begins. The subject’s head is prepped along with the biologically engineered transplant body. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow.
01/29/2144- After re-attaching the head, and administering a full blood transfusion, the subject is placed on life-support for precautionary measures. Although still in the preliminary stages, Dr. Olin rules the surgery a success.
02/3/2144- An infection was discovered at the site of the re-attachment. Due to the subject’s vulnerable immune system, Dr. Olin prescribes a heavy dose of antibiotics and has the subject placed in an isolation chamber.
02/7/2144- The infection is beginning to clear up. Optimism is beginning to grow after the comatose subject shows signs of minute brain activity.
02/7/2143-02/14/2144- There have been no recent changes in responsiveness or brain activity in the subject. Exploratory surgery is scheduled.
02/15/2144-Surgury revealed minor swelling in the temporal and parietal lobes. Steps were taken to alleviate the swelling.
02/16/2144-02/28/2144- Vast improvement has been noted. Subject is showing signs of movement in his appendages and increased brain activity.
03/4/2144- A breakthrough has been noted. Unlike the previous 313,222 subjects, Subject 313223 was the first to show signs of REM sleep.
03/17/2144- It’s a miracle. Subject has awoken from the coma and, although unable to communicate, is observed as moderately responsive. Dr. Olin starts the subject on a trial drug, Memrothral, and an intense regimen of therapy and cognitive rehabilitation.
04/12/2144- Another breakthrough is noted. The subject said the word, “Good”, after being asked how he was feeling.
05/07/2144- Subject is displaying vastly improved fine motor skills and is now speaking fluently. Still no memories reported.
06/01/2144- Through intense rehabilitation and with the aid of crutches, the subject is able to stand independently for the first time.
07/04/2143- Subject is able to walk without the use of any adaptive equipment. Even though the subject is progressing beyond expectations physically, Dr. Olin is discouraged by the subject’s cognitive development.
08/08/2144- During music therapy, subject is able to complete a previously unlearned song after only hearing the first few notes played by the therapist. Follow-up revealed that the subject took piano lessons from ages six to thirteen.
08/09/2144- Dr. Olin increases the subject’s dose of Memrothral, and orders an intense regimen of exposure therapy, with hopes that through familiarization, more memories will be recalled.
08/09/2144—09/08/2144- Dr. Olin is impressed with the subject’s recent improvement in all areas, including memory development. Talks of discharge are beginning to circulate.
09/12/2144- Subject appears agitated and request to speak with Dr. Olin.
###
File in hand, Dr. Olin, briskly entered the subject’s room. Over the past several days, the subject had been recalling memories at a rapidly progressive rate. Dr. Olin, out of personal curiosity, hoped that this day would be the one where he could ask the big question. The type of question, man had been seeking the answer for since the dawn of time.
The instant their eyes met, the subject angrily shouted, “Look, I’ve had enough of all your treatments. Day after day, I’ve been doing your treatments without complaint and, to be honest, I’m tired and I want to see my wife. Why hasn’t anyone called her?”
Dr. Olin was both shocked and terrified at the same time. He nervously asked, “What is your last memory?”
“It all came flooding back to me last night. I remember my childhood, my kids, my marriage, and how I got here in the first place.”
“How’s that?” Dr. Olin asked curiously.
“I started feeling tightness in my chest and then I just blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that. Now, I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I really miss my family and I’d like to see them as soon as possible.”
No longer able to look the subject in the eyes, a dejected Dr. Olin turned from the subject and left the room.
Confused, the subject shouted, “Hey where are you going? Am I going to be able to see them, or what?”
Dr. Olin paid no attention. He kept on walking down the hall, perseverating over the meaning of his discovery. Did he really just hear what he thought he had? Was his revival treatment the only attainable way to experience an afterlife? And how soon could he sign his family up to be cryogenically frozen?
- - -
T.S. Charles is currently working as an Associate Editor for Dark Moon Digest - The Horror Fiction Quarterly. T.S. Charles has had three short stories recently accepted for publication. T.S. Charles currently resides in West Virginia with his wife and two children.
The ice dam outside is melting. She watches it seep through the cracks in the white molding around the window and collect in a puddle on her hardwood floor. But it’s hard to see how much water has accumulated (squinting can only aid so much). She hoists her tiny frame, brittle and bent, off the chair for a better look, guided by Mr. Walker, her trusty companion who sports a snazzy pair of tennis ball shoes, though he doesn’t play any tennis.
Too much water. Now she’ll have to call someone. Who? A plumber or a roofing man? She’s feeling a bit dizzy. Her nose begins to run and a lonesome drop falls, uniting with the puddle on the floor. “Don’t look back or you’ll be sorry,” a boy’s voice bellows down below.
She skates back along the floor with Mr.Walker and flicks the light switch. How had that bare light bulb in the overhead fixture, replaced just months ago, become as yellowed and grainy as the slush dissolving out on the streets below?
Time, perhaps. Time seemed to turn the brightest gem dull and scramble each day into a casserole of hours and months, with a side of years and decades. She doesn’t cook much anymore these days, except with the Black woman who comes to visit her each day. Otherwise it’s just cold cereal—or cookies. She also doesn’t wear any rings, her hands having grown into a pair of scraggly branches. Some days she believes she is a tree.
As she passes her dresser, she notices a reflection in the cracked makeup mirror that stands behind a hodge-podge of perfume bottles, jewelry boxes, photo frames and pill boxes. Why, it’s Mother Tree! No, wait. It is herself she sees with all those brown spots and lines which mark her face, as splintered as the languid liquid memories that had once defined her but now drift like plankton in the sludge of her cerebral cortex.
But a root starts to break through, one glimmer of recall that thaws and flows in a steady series of pulses between neurons. Je me souviens…I remember…
She is no longer in her apartment gawking at Mother Tree, but disembarking an airplane, catching a transient glimpse of her reflection in the terminal’s larger-than-life observation windows—her eyes, as blue as the ocean she’d just crossed, and her visage, smooth and round, crowned by gleaming strawberry blonde locks. She finishes her hasty primping (not that she needs any) and moves forward. Oh, my! There she is!
Zoë is waiting for her right at the gate, looking just as she has in all the photos included in her letters over the years—except even more striking, in a way that makes her palms bright red and drenched with perspiration the her eyes linger on Zoë.
Something is happening in her legs too. They feel weighted, as if a tidal wave has come unexpectedly from the margins and swept her up in its force. When Zoë’s head turns in her direction the walls and clocks, the other weary travelers scrambling toward the baggage claim, even the strumming of her thumping heart all wash out into a surreal peripheral vista. She wonders if she can keep herself afloat, but realizes she might not when Zoë pulls her in.
Her nerve endings trace the warm impression of Zoë’s strong arms, Zoë’s full breasts pressing against her own, the faint scent of freesia in Zoë’s seal brown waves. Their shared embrace secretes the sensation of a temperate morning giving way to balmy afternoon. All feels calm again…until she holds Zoë out at arms’ length and peers into eyes that refract with amber, green and gray hues. Kaleidoscopes.
No, I can’t…I can’t even think it, let alone say it!
Phonemes stick on her tongue. Petrified. The silence passes as Zoë’s gaze holds her.
The reminiscence also passes as Zoë’s hazel eyes begin to turn crystalline so that they are no longer Zoë’s eyes but her own, unblinking. She is no longer in the airport with Zoë, but alone in her apartment and her own eyes are disparaging her from within the looking glass on the dresser. Too much to bear! She hoists the mirror and flings it with what little strength she can muster.
“Zoë! Oh, Zoë!”
She shakes her head and scans her surroundings. Dozens of shards have rained across the floor along with some of the hodge-podge from her dresser top. One such item, a gold photo frame, lies in the midst of the shards. Limp, but vivid.
She knifes the tears from her face and struggles to grasp the frame. She glides her gnarled fingers along the gold-painted wood and glass, impervious to the photo’s faded hues. It is an image of her and Zoë, arms around each other, laughing, a lemonade stand behind them. Their clinked glasses glisten in the light of the sun.
She smiles, recognizing that this might some kind of window, a different memory. Perhaps she will be taken back through it one day.
Outside the sun sets without apology. But there is no need. It will return in the morning to once again melt the ice that has begun to refreeze.
- - -
A finalist for the 2009 Rita Dove Poetry Award, Jennifer A. Hudson's work has appeared in Art Times, Lunarosity, Blinking Cursor, Dark Lady Poetry, The Helix, The Broken Plate, Eleutheria: The Scottish Poetry Review, Nefarious Ballerina, and Sage Woman, amongst others. She is working on her MFA at Albertus Magnus College.
Death Ray
By Jake Christie
Bill finished the first prototype while he was still in college. Any casual observer might have thought that he'd get his fill of engineering, physics, and quantum theory from his heavy courseload, but every night he was back in the lab long after his professors had gone, studying his own idiosyncratic curriculum. The first Death Ray was the size of a hair dryer and shot a beam strong enough to kill a flea.
It wasn't some obsession with killing that prompted Bill to create the Death Ray. As a child he never exhibited violent or sociopathic tendencies, and didn't torture neighborhood cats or shoot BBs at birds. No, Bill didn't create a Death Ray because he wished harm on anybody. He created it mainly because he wanted attention.
Bill hoped that the attention would be from scientific journals and academic institutions, recognizing him as the creator of the world's first Death Ray, a science fiction fantasy brought to life. They didn't respond to his inquiries in the way he hoped. If they even got to the science the suspected it was wrong, but most of them didn't get that far; they thought he was a comic book fan with an overactive imagination. He hadn't expected the words “Death Ray” to stick out like a flag that said “Crazy Person.”
As rejection letters came in and the phone messages went unreturned, Bill continued to refine his machine. Within a few years he'd gotten it down to the size of a handgun and made it powerful enough to vaporize a guinea pig. He experimented with colors for the beam itself until he settled on a classic high-fantasy fluorescent green. If he was cursed with too much imagination, he reasoned, his detractors suffered from a lack of it.
The Death Ray became more of a pet project as Bill received his doctorate, settled into a teaching position, and alienated more of the prospective scientific community. He stopped reaching out to the military, the private sector, and the Nobel committee. He didn't even mention it on first dates anymore. He tinkered on it as a hobby while his acquaintances spent their time perfecting golf swings or mastering the seven-ten split. While he was able to get it small enough to fit in his jacket pocket and powerful enough – in theory – to melt a grown man into protoplasmic goo, it spent most of its time on his basement workbench, communing with his old records and his exercise machine.
Bill got married and moved into the suburbs. He got the attention he craved from his wife, his children, and his students, and he somehow avoided the express flight to a secret island fortress full of henchmen that many of his prospective benefactors had predicted for him. While Bill continued to follow developments in weapons technology, waiting for something to come along that could provide a foothold for his strange-looking green beam-shooting, Death Ray, nothing came close. He would take it out and tinker with it every few months, but when the old trigger snapped off under a little too much filing he didn't even bother to replace it. He gave up the idea of someday, at some fortuitous moment, using his Death Ray to foil a bank robbery or child kidnapping. It took up residence in the bottom drawer of his desk, covered by papers and old Christmas cards.
When Bill died he was remembered as a respected professor, a devoted husband, and a loving father, but not as the creator of the world's first and only Death Ray.
The responsibility of organizing Bill's possessions fell on his grown son Robert, who didn't know a thing about his father's complicated field of study. Kneeling in front of his father's desk, he filed his papers and books haphazardly, mostly by the length or complexity of the title. He was puzzled when he got to the bottom of his father's desk and found what looked like a toy gun. It was heavy and metal and missing a trigger, but otherwise it looked as polished and well-designed as anything in the toy store at the mall.
Robert aimed down the barrel and fiddled with the trigger guard. The gun was too damaged to sell, even at a yard sale, but it might be the kind of thing his five-year-old son could have fun with. The young boy already spent his days in his own overactive imagination, living out scenarios of faraway worlds and swashbuckling adventures. Grandpa Bill's strange toy gun could live on as a prop in one of these far-flung epics, the trusty sidearm of an intergalactic pirate who crossed the galaxy with nothing but his wits, his spaceship, and his Death Ray. Robert couldn't think of anything his father would have wanted more.
- - -
Jake Christie is a writer who lives in Portland, Maine. His work has been featured online and in print, in such varied venues as Yankee Pot Roast, Word Riot, 365 Tomorrows, Ramble Underground, Cell Stories, College Humor, Points in Case, and FACE Magazine.
By Jake Christie
Bill finished the first prototype while he was still in college. Any casual observer might have thought that he'd get his fill of engineering, physics, and quantum theory from his heavy courseload, but every night he was back in the lab long after his professors had gone, studying his own idiosyncratic curriculum. The first Death Ray was the size of a hair dryer and shot a beam strong enough to kill a flea.
It wasn't some obsession with killing that prompted Bill to create the Death Ray. As a child he never exhibited violent or sociopathic tendencies, and didn't torture neighborhood cats or shoot BBs at birds. No, Bill didn't create a Death Ray because he wished harm on anybody. He created it mainly because he wanted attention.
Bill hoped that the attention would be from scientific journals and academic institutions, recognizing him as the creator of the world's first Death Ray, a science fiction fantasy brought to life. They didn't respond to his inquiries in the way he hoped. If they even got to the science the suspected it was wrong, but most of them didn't get that far; they thought he was a comic book fan with an overactive imagination. He hadn't expected the words “Death Ray” to stick out like a flag that said “Crazy Person.”
As rejection letters came in and the phone messages went unreturned, Bill continued to refine his machine. Within a few years he'd gotten it down to the size of a handgun and made it powerful enough to vaporize a guinea pig. He experimented with colors for the beam itself until he settled on a classic high-fantasy fluorescent green. If he was cursed with too much imagination, he reasoned, his detractors suffered from a lack of it.
The Death Ray became more of a pet project as Bill received his doctorate, settled into a teaching position, and alienated more of the prospective scientific community. He stopped reaching out to the military, the private sector, and the Nobel committee. He didn't even mention it on first dates anymore. He tinkered on it as a hobby while his acquaintances spent their time perfecting golf swings or mastering the seven-ten split. While he was able to get it small enough to fit in his jacket pocket and powerful enough – in theory – to melt a grown man into protoplasmic goo, it spent most of its time on his basement workbench, communing with his old records and his exercise machine.
Bill got married and moved into the suburbs. He got the attention he craved from his wife, his children, and his students, and he somehow avoided the express flight to a secret island fortress full of henchmen that many of his prospective benefactors had predicted for him. While Bill continued to follow developments in weapons technology, waiting for something to come along that could provide a foothold for his strange-looking green beam-shooting, Death Ray, nothing came close. He would take it out and tinker with it every few months, but when the old trigger snapped off under a little too much filing he didn't even bother to replace it. He gave up the idea of someday, at some fortuitous moment, using his Death Ray to foil a bank robbery or child kidnapping. It took up residence in the bottom drawer of his desk, covered by papers and old Christmas cards.
When Bill died he was remembered as a respected professor, a devoted husband, and a loving father, but not as the creator of the world's first and only Death Ray.
The responsibility of organizing Bill's possessions fell on his grown son Robert, who didn't know a thing about his father's complicated field of study. Kneeling in front of his father's desk, he filed his papers and books haphazardly, mostly by the length or complexity of the title. He was puzzled when he got to the bottom of his father's desk and found what looked like a toy gun. It was heavy and metal and missing a trigger, but otherwise it looked as polished and well-designed as anything in the toy store at the mall.
Robert aimed down the barrel and fiddled with the trigger guard. The gun was too damaged to sell, even at a yard sale, but it might be the kind of thing his five-year-old son could have fun with. The young boy already spent his days in his own overactive imagination, living out scenarios of faraway worlds and swashbuckling adventures. Grandpa Bill's strange toy gun could live on as a prop in one of these far-flung epics, the trusty sidearm of an intergalactic pirate who crossed the galaxy with nothing but his wits, his spaceship, and his Death Ray. Robert couldn't think of anything his father would have wanted more.
- - -
Jake Christie is a writer who lives in Portland, Maine. His work has been featured online and in print, in such varied venues as Yankee Pot Roast, Word Riot, 365 Tomorrows, Ramble Underground, Cell Stories, College Humor, Points in Case, and FACE Magazine.
Editing
By FearnHouse
I make the final cuts for you tonight
The bloodshed you’ve caused will finally end
My heart’s been severed due to your retracted vows
and I shall never return to you again
Hands will scribe the oncoming depression
No distant view of the horizon
Oblivion has crept into my life
as if the tides were rising because of Poseidon…
Or is the Moon merely inching ever closer?
I make the final cuts for you tonight
‘Tis the second time you’ve deceived me
and the second time I’ve turned to bleeding
I’m trying not to love you
like I’ve loved you before
but when snow flutters down in
prodigious flakes, it’s difficult
not to imagine you in my arms,
lying in my bed
(lying to me)
Gazing through the glass, my eyes
register the slumberous fall
of frozen water; my nose—though—
detects the watermelon scent
your hair picked up in the shower...
I make the final cuts for you tonight
Because I believe you did not truly
love me. You might have loved what I was
for you, but you did not truly love me
I’m trying not to love you
Even though we’ve loved before
I know we had some sort of love,
something that I wished was real
But now I know that I don’t have you;
to know we’ll never be again,
sanity becomes out of reach—
not being able to comprehend
the lesson I’m ‘supposed’ to learn
or where Recovery is to begin
But I guess the first step
is admittance, right?
So I’ve made the final cuts for you tonight
A declaration, vibrant and true:
I’ve decided to journey forth from you
I am 20 years old and am attending Harper College, working towards a degree in Mathematics Education. Writing is something that I enjoy and keeps me sane, and if my work can help me get by, hopefully it can help someone else, too.
By FearnHouse
I make the final cuts for you tonight
The bloodshed you’ve caused will finally end
My heart’s been severed due to your retracted vows
and I shall never return to you again
Hands will scribe the oncoming depression
No distant view of the horizon
Oblivion has crept into my life
as if the tides were rising because of Poseidon…
Or is the Moon merely inching ever closer?
I make the final cuts for you tonight
‘Tis the second time you’ve deceived me
and the second time I’ve turned to bleeding
I’m trying not to love you
like I’ve loved you before
but when snow flutters down in
prodigious flakes, it’s difficult
not to imagine you in my arms,
lying in my bed
(lying to me)
Gazing through the glass, my eyes
register the slumberous fall
of frozen water; my nose—though—
detects the watermelon scent
your hair picked up in the shower...
I make the final cuts for you tonight
Because I believe you did not truly
love me. You might have loved what I was
for you, but you did not truly love me
I’m trying not to love you
Even though we’ve loved before
I know we had some sort of love,
something that I wished was real
But now I know that I don’t have you;
to know we’ll never be again,
sanity becomes out of reach—
not being able to comprehend
the lesson I’m ‘supposed’ to learn
or where Recovery is to begin
But I guess the first step
is admittance, right?
So I’ve made the final cuts for you tonight
A declaration, vibrant and true:
I’ve decided to journey forth from you
I am 20 years old and am attending Harper College, working towards a degree in Mathematics Education. Writing is something that I enjoy and keeps me sane, and if my work can help me get by, hopefully it can help someone else, too.
