OGMA // ISSUE 05

issue 05

october 2020

ogma

smoke and shadows october 2020

ogma masthead editor in chief creative director editing director photographer

aneleh toch gabriella khushi

on the cover Much like The Persistence of Memory by Salvador DalĂ­, this photograph by Ali Khalaf inspired us here at Ogma for our October issue.

editor's letter

Welcome to Ogma's fifth issue! This month's magazine is focused on all things spooky, occult and Halloween-y featuring over fifty pages of poetry & fiction submissions as well as a photo series!

Halloween (or Samhain) is an extremely special time, this year especially with the blue moon (the last one on Samhain night occurred in 1944!) so energies are high. Halloween is all about the thin veil between worlds, honoring those who have passed on and remembering our history. Back in the past Samhain marked the new year, so now is a great time to start affirmations for things you want to attract into your life.

Some updates for Ogma is that we have our new website which will be officially launched this week. There we will be posting blog posts and has all of our info on how to submit and about Ogma. I am so excited to announce that our merch designs are officially in the process and will be available for purchase before the holidays. We want to keep costs as low and affordable as possible and any money made from the sales will directly fund the domain and other subscription costs that Ogma has. Without the hard work of our voluntary team this magazine would not be possible so a massive thank you to them and to you, dear readers and contributors.

So sit back, enjoy this month's read and feel free to shoot us a message about anything. We'll be back for next month's zine and will be active across our social medias as usual. lots of love,

Aneleh Enner.

Editor-in-Chief

contents

8

POETRY & PROSE various poems submitted to ogma this month

19 FICTION short stories and flash fiction for october's spooky theme

49 PHOTO SERIES toxic by seigar

THIS PIECE BY LAURA ANDRÓMEDA ONYX "KING AND CONSORT", IS AN ILLUSTRATION INSPIRED BY MABEL PODCAST.

PART ONE POETRY AND PROSE

CURRENT DYSTOPIA

BY CARMEN ARRIBAS | CARUMENS

being named after a lump of dirt or after a piece of faked feelings, what’s the difference? under the words there are rivers of dry tears: warning signs blinding in the darkness of fluttering eyelids—sometimes you cannot decide whether to keep them open or shut them close, sometimes you like to evoke the nauseating flavor of vomit in the back of your throat while you stare at the epileptic lights making the world tumble around you in your go-to shabby club. over the earth there are printed footprints and worms eating at everything you leave behind and the skeletons of long-starved sparrows, which are the real inhabitants of cities and like to build their graveyards on the gravel children like to play with. you must confess: you yourself would like to be a tattered neon sign, buzzing like a desperate moth frying itself to death on the kitchen’s led light, blinking in and out of life in cold blues and pinks and sickening greens, attracting wasted youths that will undoubtedly and rightfully grind and roll over the broken glasses on the dancefloor, that will spit on the sidewalk and roll cigarettes just to have something to do with their hands while waiting for their best friend who’s somewhere among the throng of sweaty people. you must confess: despite your deepest desires you are but a root —not the strong oak root or the perennial pine tree root or even the smaller but resistant lemon tree root. you are a root so thin you could be called a thread, hanging loosely from some tuft of moss covering the asphalt of some putrid side alley or some other plant of dubious origin which some rachitic mutt will eat to fill its belly with something. being named after some entity that died before you were born, who even cares? your name means nothing to you and you mean nothing to the world. in spite of this you are alive in the shadows of a city that would rather see your blood. that is an ironic kind of triumph.

SMOKE billowed from those terribly empty willows sweet branches so twisted charring and bleeding sap sticky and green slim leaves like a scar but not nearly as sweet and her calluses were nothing like bark and whose soles became scorched as the rope laced her wrists the words dripping out as serpent curled lies and maybe she was a witch because she did not burn but she was reborn

BY JAMIE WONG | TUMBLR: ARDETT

and

and

and

MIRRORS

echo and echo and speak of something old dirt under nails and splinters in flesh but now she sees herself graced in lace and sweet metal chains eyes dusted in purple jewels and gems ground together and she paints her nails in fiery red lacquer and her skin does not burn anymore only candles at twilight the wax spotting her floor as rabbit moon curls overhead no fears nest between her ribs and her reflection lives on and on

BY MARTA SKUPNIK

ORPHEUS’S TRUE LOVE the pavement is wet the city’s behind. he walks in grey are the walls the labyrinth of doors stretching to the unknown light white. buzzing. sharp passing the mechanical dogs, electric river all the way to elevator. and he goes down. one floor, sixth, sixtieth,

BY AUGUST BRONZE | NOTEABOY

THEY THINK WE ALL WANNA GET STONED BUT INSTEAD. my generation has a hades/persephone complex and we'll run ourselves to the end of the world searching for another fix in our loving/hurting addiction; we've all become single dimensional treadmill creatures devalued by infinity/never-enough-time on this animalistic tear through our calcified cities looking for someone who will not just put their arms around us but feel our blood underneath our skin/offer a violent cathartic sort of kiss; but this is a smoke and mirrors war that we've taught ourselves in lonely classrooms how to yearn for not a battle worth fighting, and it's eerie to watch people rip holes in the earth with their pounding heels/healing wounds that will make watercolor scars at very best; (maybe they're bullet holes and maybe they're lipstick prints), in search of their answer to a starvation/to a twisted kidnapping poem from two thousand five hundred years ago; where all she wanted was her own dark kingdom, but he wouldn't let her slip from his charcoal embrace anyway; (her lips tasted better than her justice)

MIDNIGHT

BY MC SHERMAN

He whispered to me to meet him at midnight when the moon hides in the night.

The cold floorboards felt like the cemetery grounds when the clock chimed.

In the light of candles, shadows danced gracefully.

I don’t dare to turn on the lights.

His heartbeat sounded warm and he felt like Heaven, even though he’s been here forever.

Warm meets cold, ice & fire, the mirrors gleam like jewels yet only show one of us.

SHADOWS

BY MOLLY | INCIPIENTDREAM

i look into the mirror and i see nothing but the shadows of who i used to be. lost desires, a broken heart. and even then-i feel a burst within my chest, a flash, a bang the desperation to cling to all that i know and all that i am but who am i really? stardust runs through my veins while smoke curls through my thoughts nothing but a girl who dreams and begs for something more. learning languages so old that they’ve all but turned to dust and ash on the wind a prayer, a pleading, for renewal and rebirth. teardrops flashing on cheeks like tiny diamonds. is this the epiphany we all are yearning for? to realize that we are nothing but the whims of a fate filled with hatred? fear clings to my heart. burning. burning. staring at that mirror makes me realize that i am afraid so, so afraid. i am nothing but a smudge, a shadow waiting.

BY R. KAMAL

HOME.

mangoes so ripe they look orange and the man on the moon in the face of bright-eyed children stumbling down makeshift sidewalks in their dirty brown shorts and bare chests.

Crumbling mud and dried straw clings to the soles of their bounding feet and they narrowly avoid the tin coffee table adorned by a set of dainty teacups and an ivory kettle to match, arranged near the open entryway of a neighbourhood restaurant. Billowing clouds of grey smoke escape the corner of the man’s mouth as he curls his lips upwards, sets the looping pipe of his shisha down against the metal frame of the table and lifts his cup to replace it, taking long, measured sips of the earthy brew. hot afternoons were spent outdoors flung dramatically utop a beach towel on the balcony of our grand-parents’ house, the tender edges dried to a flaky crisp while sepia stretched taut along our flattened backs, basking in the warm honeyed glow of the desert sun. We rarely spoke, communicating in languid movements instead; a side-shuffle here, a quick motion towards the translucent jug of refreshments there, the chopped mint leaves and sliced lemon buoyantly dancing along the glass curvature. the seconds stretched between us, and our worlds became suspended in a haze-like trance, only sporadically interrupted by our grandmother sashaying in to check on the laundry and as she reached over us to alternate the wooden clips around the strings, the cloth of her skirt would skim past my gaze, a veil being lifted for only an instance, then drawn once more against my sight. night would fall ephemerally, quietly, then all at once, drowning the city in an opaque shroud of velvety soot, the cacophonous array of sounds emitting from the bustling streets a paradox to the tranquil skyline hung above them. We managed on a handful of hours of sleep, spending the time tossing and turning against the cotton bedsheets, aimlessly swatting at the surrounding air to divert the insects’ attention away from our sticky flesh and onto the low hum of the television. We wore the day like a second skin, pesky mosquitoes nipping at it bit by bit until we shed the cloak and slipped beneath the silver nebulae of the crescent moon, bodies eclipsed by the softened moonbeams filtering through the shuttered window, and only then would we finally rest.

LAST CONTACT

BY SASHA CONWAY TUMBLR: LASBRUMAS INSTA: LAS.BRUMAAS

what they left. phantom teeth over phantom tongues. phantom hands over the living. whispers, unheard. recipes, unwritten. final wishes, last regrets. unseen, untouched, unnoticed. where they’re going. here, the cool breeze, a dirge for the living. the road, an invisible path through hills and hollows. clouds, the mourning veil of the unseen world. leaves, the funerary pyre of the lost. what they said. souls rattled free from their cages find ways back to the undying lands, where blood and sinew cannot be found.

THE HAUNTING

BY HOLLY | HOLLYBERRY_X

moonlight fills the hallway as the door swings open, casting long shadows across the walls, reminiscent of the slow, winding growth of ivy. a silhouette spills into the glare of the full moon like ink slowly seeping into old parchment- claiming this space, irreversibly, as its own. she stands before me, shrouded in the dark of the night like her skin is formed of shadows. october seeps into my bones as a chill over bare skin she steps inside, floorboards creaking in protest beneath the worn leather of her black boots. it ghosts an unwelcome shiver along my spine. the fire fights it’s dwindling flame, futile in its attempt to breach the darkness that haunts every corner of this house, like just a hint of warmth will repel her from invading this house any further: but nothing can keep her out.

SMOKE & MIRRORS

BY IMAN | BLEEDYCCITY ON TUMBLR

To the boy that is more angel than human The one with blonde hair like wisps of hay and a temper quicker than lightning To the boy that doesn’t exist Look, angel, I'm tired of pretending. Why don’t you step out of the mirror and exist for a little while?

The diseased million dollar bills are strewn across the floor.

There’s nothing to be afraid of now, sweetheart.

I created you, You’re supposed to obey me, You’re supposed to see the face of god in my eyes, But now I’m under you and you’re reaching for the gun gleaming silver beneath the moonlight I’m staring up at you, and oh? the gun is at my head, I’m as good as dead.

God, you look so beautiful. Go ahead.

The bullet ricochets against the walls of my skull. Now the fragmented pieces and bits of brain paint the town red. Well? Pocket some of those bits, come on, you know it’s worth something.

You want the untouchable boy, it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You want the boy with the black, half rimmed spectacles, but honey, you see, the eyes behind those spectacles were never designed to be gazing at you. So you created an angel in your head who would do what you say and taught him tricks and roughed him up and struck him down and moulded a creature to your own liking. Now you are a god in your own small, strange ways.

PART TWO FICTION

PASSING THROUGH

BY PARKER WRIGHT | @GARDENSTPARKER

I end up at a rest stop somewhere on the highway. I haven’t been awake long enough to be able to tell if it’s hot or cold, but it’s definitely one of the two. Through the fog, I can see to the road but not much farther. Cars line up one by one and by the time I realize that they’ve all stopped, it’s because people are getting out of them. A Scandinavian tourist who walked all the way up the line and back says that the road is closed but they’ll start letting people through at ten thirty. It’s nine fifteen. A girl walks past me into the little convenience store, and then accidentally makes direct eye contact with me and smiles on her way back out. I see her and I get this tugging feeling in my chest like good things will happen if I go with her. I ask her about her trip and when she tells me, I realize the truth: bad things will happen if I don’t.

You’re not supposed to go on road trips with strangers, but I figure this is an exception. I get into her car and we listen to pop radio until they finally let us through. The songs are catchy, even though they feel indescribably wrong for where we are. Then we’re going, and I’m too busy thinking about what used to be here, but she keeps dancing. It’s cute. We stop at a restaurant by the motel, and she gives me a weird look for dipping my fries in my shake and asks me why I’m tagging along on a ghost hunting trip if I don’t believe in ghosts. I tell her I hope she’ll prove me wrong.

She has a map and a list of places. Most of them are old houses, all of them are gorgeous.

She brings her machine that does nothing but squeal, and I don’t say anything about it because she thinks it’s so cool. She brings candles and salt and I don’t say anything about those because if she sees me recoil, all will be lost.

The night before, once we’re in the area, I drape my arm around her, put my head on her shoulder, tell her that we’ve been driving for so long and I’m so tired. I ask quietly if we can go in the morning, and she says yes almost without any input from me. Nighttime doesn’t agree with her, it probably never has. She doesn’t tell me this, but I know it anyway. I put her to bed like I’m her guardian in dingy motel rooms, even though she’s not the one I’m here to protect. She leaves her list and her map out on the desk as if they’ll disappear if they’re not the first thing she lays eyes on when she wakes up. I take the addresses and go by myself.

Ghosts, spirits, energies… whatever you want to call them, they’re always there.

The houses would be different without them. The history would be gone. I reach out to them, tell them she’s coming, tell them they need to leave now but that it will be safe to come back after we’re gone. I’ve heard living in a place with too much history gets uncomfortable, and when a property is uncomfortable, no one buys it. Rather than risk a lack of buyers, the men send out “hunters” like her.

They’re not really hunting, just clearing the places out. They like the title because it lets them believe they’re the ones in danger.

When we get there in the morning, there’s never anything there. She pretends to be embarrassed that I was right, but she’s enjoying the whole thing too much to truly be upset by it. Her little machine hums and she lights her candles and does her chants and salts the windowsills. I lounge out in the front room and wait for her to finish and we leave together. With one foot back in the car, I announce that I dropped an earring in the kitchen or heard a noise in the basement and ask if she’ll wait five minutes. I sweep the salt off the windowsills and whisper an apology for them to find when they get back. She never wants to come back in with me. These houses scare her, that’s why she does this.

This is what scares me: that someone so sweet could be so committed to this total strategic demolition. They sent me because I look like her. Well, almost. She glows in the dark where I shine in the light, but we’re similar enough. She’d think twice about doing to me what she does to them.

We run into someone else like me at a roadside restaurant, a woman who does what I do. She’s smiling at me even before I recognize her. I stop by her table while my hunter goes to the bathroom, and she gives me a questioning look. There are very few hard rules pertaining to what we do, but common sense dictates I’ve gotten far too close. I don’t know what to say for myself, the excuses about the way her hair bounces or how soft her hands are sound unforgivably stupid, even in my head.

MY MOTHER'S HAUNTED EYES

BY DIAN LOH (T/W: BLOOD, SLIGHT GORY DETAILS)

A short compilation of my mother’s most terrifying ghost stories. These are just a few of them, mainly from her childhood. Four sisters and an uninvited guest. A woman, crying by a stairwell. The screech of metal on waxy, vinyl floors. Real life accounts of a shadowy world that have passed through a daughter’s hands, a young child’s mouth, a lover’s mind. Sit tight, for smoke and mirrors are absent here.

There are only concrete emotions, solid shadows in motion, and my mother’s haunted eyes.

My mother’s haunted eyes have been open for as long as she can remember. Her childhood was plagued with sightings of a veiled world. They saw all too much.

One of these sightings was incredibly significant and occurred when she was seven years young, just across the street from where she lived. There was a hospital there, a tiny clinic — Westpoint, it was called. She was there with one of her sisters and their parents in the middle of the night. They’d gone to a separate room to be treated and left her alone in the doorway in the middle of the hall. It was a small place with very few staff. It was midnight in a quiet neighbourhood.

And so, apart from that one doctor in the other room, there was no one around. My mother was waiting patiently for the treatment to be finished. She could sense things and so, her eyes were darting about. She was uncomfortable. She could tell she wasn’t alone. And she was right. Just then, a large stretcher sped right past her, wheels screeching as it came to a sudden halt at the end of the hall. Stunned and creeped out, my mother tried to wave it off as the effects of wind and gravity — casual physics, nothing much. Never mind that the clinic was air-conditioned and had its doors and windows closed. Never mind that there was no nurse or doctor or human being in sight. The wheeled bed had stopped, there was no doubt about it. It was neatly done too, having pulled up just inches before the wall. But then it turned left. It carried on. It continued to speed down the next hallway.

Wheels screaming, lights flickering and my mother’s haunted eyes wide open.

My mother’s haunted eyes come with a pair of haunted ears as well. They too, are victims of the veiled. This is a story where the creature talked back. It’s a wellknown one, and leaves me afraid still. It happened in the same neighbourhood as the previous story — Taman Jurong. While my mother says that things are much better now, I think it’s perhaps because the people there have become too frightened to sleep. However, it was a weekday in 1978 back then and so when the grandfather clock in the hallway struck its echoing midnight chimes, my mother’s household was already in deep slumber. Thanks to her gifted hearing though, she was the only exception. Her being a light-sleeper became the reason why she woke up to the barely-there sound of rustling fabric and soothing prayers. What looked like a woman was standing at the foot of her bed, cloaked in a white telekong — sheeted fabric worn during Muslim prayer. Tall, solid and imposing, the creature had its arms folded in a band above its waist. My mother wasn’t able to see its face, but there was some discernible muttering. The woman-like creature was praying. Hoping to fight her instincts and hoping that the tall lady was either of her grandmothers who were visiting and had slept in the room across the hall, my mother asked who it was. She asked if it was them. She knew the answers to her questions by the time they’d left her lips.

There was an uncommon air about this woman-like creature. It — or she — was not from here. And the creature confirmed this with a hollow reply. “No, it is Salamah,” it said. My mother didn’t have any relatives by that name. Salamah didn’t exist in her world. Before she could gather her thoughts though, Salamah continued, never removing herself from her position. She told my mother, “Go and sleep.” Scared as she was, my mother listened. In the morning, she told her father, who’d experienced it in his own room as well. He gave her a look of understanding, of meaning, and then told her to never speak about it again. My grandfather was like my mother. He too had haunted eyes.

It was 1 A.M. on Karak Highway. My mother’s haunted eyes were in the backseat, looking out the window. Once again, her 10 year old self couldn’t fall asleep. The forests were dark and there weren’t any streetlights. She was staring out into the nothingness. She wasn’t really looking at anything anyway — she tried her best not to. There were creatures between the leaves and focusing on these shadows could cause them to reveal themselves. A face seen was a face too many and my mother’s eyes had already seen too much. So she continued to look, but never really notice.

Only ever pulling away from the mottled glass to speak to her father, who was driving the car. They were the only two people awake during this family road trip.

The rest of them were asleep. Deep into their casual conversation, she leaned back into the seat and felt a presence beside her, from beyond the window. Turning her head, she was met with a being so disturbed and so ruined, her fear couldn’t even be met with screams. The thing had a triangular head and big, bulging eyes that seemed to take up up half of its goblin face. Tight around the bones, its skin was sheer and glowed a faint blue. Wrapped around two old bicycle handles, its hands were gnarled and its nails were long, chipped and grimy. My mother hadn’t ever seen something so ghastly. She was about to turn back, to look away and focus on the open palms of her hands in order to somehow erase the sight of the creature.

She wanted to clear her mind and make the thing leave. But then it cycled right next to her, allowed themselves to be separated by a single pane of glass. My mother and her haunted eyes hadn’t managed to turn away fast enough. Now, having seen this creature up close, breathing onto her window, she thought that the worst was over. She thought that this terrifying episode was done. She was wrong. The thing opened its mouth and lifted the corners, its lips stretching and then splitting with blood. Jaw unhinged, the flesh on its face began to pull back, such that its cheekbones were jutting out, nearly ripping its skin. Lids retracted, it allowed only a pair of yellowed eyeballs to hang out of their sockets. The creature was smiling. And it was smiling at her. Tendons snapping audibly, its twisted grin was a long, ragged gash across the ends of its face, nearly cutting into its ears. It was carved into solid bone and revealed never-ending rows of overlapping teeth.

My mother stared on at this mangled creature, petrified from pure shock horror. It remained there for a good minute before it suddenly disappeared into the night.

There were now, once again, empty forests and clear roads. Nothing out of place.

But my mother’s haunted eyes, they had captured it all. Her family still continued to use the highway for road trips to visit relatives, even after this incident. But my own family? No. We don’t visit the Karak Highway. Ever.

We’ve come to the last story for this particular compilation. There are many more in my mother’s arsenal, but Halloween will be over in a couple of hours and so, I’d like to wrap things up with what I believe to be one of the scariest things my mother has ever experienced. She was coming home from school one afternoon.

She expected to be met with an empty flat. But my mother’s haunted eyes always saw visitors. And this time, it was waiting at the stairwell, crying into weathered, blistered hands. A cadaver in a white cloak, the creature looked to be a woman — an infamous one. It was called the Pontianak. I am in my room and it is dark and I am alone and merely typing this name out gives me chills down my spine. This creature is not to be played with. My mother knew this too. So when she saw the Pontianak by the metal bannister, she knew to turn away. She knew to run to her flat and get in. Immediately. She had just reached the door when an eerie feeling arose within her. Something wasn’t quite right. My mother held her breath and took a quick glance behind, only to meet with a single bloodshot eye framed by skeletal fingers. The Pontianak was looking directly at her. Grappling with her house keys, my mother continued rushing, trying to unlock the gate. She had to get in before it came for her — before it was too late. Every second she was outside, she was shaking and she could feel the creature coming close. Finally, she pushed open the gate and slammed the door behind her, double-locked it just to be sure.

My mother’s haunted eyes were filled with pure terror and even now, she doesn’t dare entertain the thought of what could happen had she stayed outside any longer.

Skeptics scoff and the believers have so much faith. I am merely a storyteller who hopes that these tales will convince. The argument as to whether ghosts are real still exists for some, if not most of the world. I know they do though. I can say it with assured certainty. What? How? Why? Because I am a daughter of a lady with the sixth sense, with unveiled and augmented sight. And as such, I’ve inherited the cursed privilege, the painful gift of my mother’s haunted eyes.

TO BE ALONE

BY NISHI NANDINENI

She was alone, far and well away from another living being.

She lived in a mansion—her favorite spot being away from it. Through strokes of blue, she blended in with the sky, her eyes the same color. Though, I could never tell for her eyes were so dull they shone a gray—her sadness filling the empty air around her.

And even though in my eyes her life was frozen, I could see every moment that was yet to happen. The moment she stepped back into her house while the sun set, the moment she left one lingering glance behind her before completely shutting her life behind that white marble door of hers.

A faint sigh slipped through my lips as everything clicked back into reality and she was back in that position, the same position I saw her in every morning.

I let my fingers brush against the soft texture of the paint as I felt her unmoving eyes sink into my rapid ones—they simply stared back at me, as if analyzing, calculating the moment I would break.

She was wearing a white dress in the painting, bright and bland, the way I imagined she spoke. She, like me, was torn, split by the ways of the world. I sometimes wondered if I was better off the way she was—alone.

But what drew me back was not my better of thoughts, instead it was that expression, that expression she had, the longing—it was beyond my mind, me, to fathom that emotion.

I couldn’t handle it. I imagine neither could she for every moment of her life was the same down to the millisecond.

And as I stared back at her, the only thing I could see was despair.

SLAUGHTER OF NIGHTINGALES

BY VIERS AUTRY

“Oh, how the trees weep,” the girl whispers, her voice echoing the haunting sorrow that swells inside her chest.

The people around her kneel at her feet, the tips of their toes burrowed into the hollow ground, the feeling of gritty dirt nestled in the crevices of their fingertips. Behind her, the man beats on the drum rhythmically, each beat kindles the flames in the beating of their hearts. The girl feeds off of the energy from her people. Their bones are pressed as low to the ground as possible. The dress that adorns her flows from behind. The silky material feels suffocating as she moves slowly from side to side. The ground beneath her acts as an anchor - her soul, the roots and the ground, her home. She wonders, briefly, what sound the drums make. With her feet digging into the ground, she sways to the low hum of the percussion, her body contorting like that of a snake as she follows the vibrations of the music.

Her hands are clasped together, her spine curving downward before she follows the beat back towards the sky. They grow clammier by the second and wriggle themselves towards the crows that flutter past above. Her hips shake, the anklets clang together loudly, as her feet pranced.

She can feel the tension tightening in her stomach, a sucker punch, the girl believes it, as the scream she holds begins to boil over.

Her hands drop suddenly, her spine straightening to the fine point of a toothpick before the girl collapses. In front of her people, she sits in the dirt. Her dress, she remembers briefly, flutters softly to the ground as her knees dig into the soil. Inside her head, the thoughts jumble and weave themselves together in a tale quite like no other she’s recalled before.

“Oh, how the trees weep” she repeats in a broken whimper. She feels the tightness in her throat, the burning sensation behind her eyes. She wants to cry out, move, shift forward, but she can’t will her body to do so. She repeats her statement, her voice sounding stronger, if not for the slight stuttering in her tone. Her statement sounds hollow, she thinks, and laced with knowledge. Ancient knowledge that weighs on her bones heavily - ancient wisdom that makes her want to bury her head into the cracked ground until her body suffocates under its weight.

She can feel the soul she shares with nature desecrating in her being - a reflection, she recalls, of the corpses of her people that litter the fields and meadows of her home. She coughs, suddenly, and the taste of metal fills her mouth before she’s collapsed in a heaving fit. She goes to wipe her mouth, the movement seeming just right for the occasion, and feels the grainy texture so like the ground beneath her toes. It shocks her, the sight of the dirt slithering its way past her scarred lips.

The bodies around her have begun to shift. They hum lowly, a lamenting song for the death of those they knew, even if only briefly. They call to her, beckon her, for an answer. “Why do the trees weep, fată? Do they weep, fata mea, for what has happened or for what is to come?”

Her people flicker, like that of a glitch in a system she no longer has control over, and for a second, she sees the dead. She sees the jagged lines of infused plates in one. Another, she sees a pink sheen, reminiscent of the flesh the body once harbored. But before she can react, before she can question it , she feels the bubbling in her stomach, the blinding white pain in her head and the slipping of memories that run from her ears like quicksand.

Around her, the bodies rock from side to side, their bodies lurching forward every few beats to the drum behind her before settling into a steady motion. She copies their movements. Her very being, she decides, is in tune to her people. She is here, on this plane of existence, for them. Her duty is to them. Her movements are mechanical, her body twisting in a circular movement. She pitches forward before feeling her lower half hit the soles of her feet and then she swivels. Her hands tunnel into the gritty earth. Her eyes are hooded, the white cloud swirling around in her pupils glow brightly. Her hair flies in all directions, the lavender tendrils hang wildly to frame her face.

"Why do the trees weep, my love?” They continue to ask. She does not want to respond. The answer rattles around in her brain continuously. On a loop, she can see the tale of their death of their destruction. Her hands scratch at her throat as it tightens, her teeth gnaw at the skin on her lips. She can feel the answer right there, on the tip of her tongue but she does not wish to say it. She does not wish to see the pain in their eyes - the weight of their grief will swallow her whole. And yet, as she tries to fight it, a rubber band snaps behind her eyes. She sags against the ground. Her face presses into the cool earth, the vibrations of the drums bounce around her head as she lays there. She cannot stop herself from sitting up slowly, the action causing a rasped breath to exhale shakily between her bleeding lips.

She cannot stop herself from saying the words: "The trees weep for us. They mourn the dead and feast on the bones of our ancestors, of those who came before us. They cry for the death of us, for the death of our people and our country. The trees cry for us."

She reaches for the sky after her statement, the scream leaves her lips. Her shrieks echo through the forest around her, cocooning her in the sorrow she feels. Death, she knows, is coming for them. Death, she cries, saves no one. Her head erupts in pain, the agony she feels blinds her briefly. The ringing in her ears grows louder, the beating on the ground starts to fade, and yet she cannot stop. Dirt erupts from between her lips, rocks and gravels scratch her throat on their way up until she’s collapsed and dry heaving. Her vision is spotty and she can barely make out the shifts in human flesh and corpses in a circle around her.

The heads of the skeletons - no people - no corpses stare at her. She can feel it - there as she said, she can feel their grief, their sorrow. Their jaws hang freely, the bones littered in dust and dirt and insects inhale shakily.

Their voice, in unison, booms out in the silence of the forest, “The trees weep for us, for the unholiness of our spirit and the death of our mothers and fathers." And then they are gone. Just as quickly as it began, it is over.

All that is left is the body of the young girl collapsed in the center of a field. The ground beneath her is scorched. Surrounding her, is the dust of skeletal bones and a singular drum.

MIRRORS IN THE DARK

BY MARTA SKUPNIK

I never liked mirrors in the dark, unknown moving shapes, ageless demons making faces at me, reflections of a dark past, or even darker future, but I could deal with all of that, not the first not the last haunted objects in my life. It was the daytime that slowly sucked life out with every reflection of a tired smile. and now I'm embarrassed to admit how much time it took me to figure out how out that perhaps the daylight was more haunted than night. It wasn't obvious at first, just a glimpse of something being not right, flash of my reflection with all black eyes sometimes with slashed neck and in all white (that was my favorite, not gonna lie) amusing I would say, or entertaining at least, unfortunately that's what they could say about me. I couldn't stand to look at them, seeing in their eyes that even after all they're not the ones ruining my life, they knew that the blame was on the other side, and they were more than happy to let me know with a judgmental smile.

Breaking it won't help fix my life its just a minor inconvenience , I knew that as well as who is really to blame here. But one day a smirk and a glance got to much, what can I say I'm only human after all. Unfortunately that's how I knew, I was right when in one of its pieces laying on the floor I could still see a triumphal smile.

DRACULA IS MY FAVOURITE TW: DEATH

BY CAROLAINNE DA ROZA | INSTA: @CAROLLROZA

His wet and trembling hand was slowly carried to the doorbell, and the consequent sound caused by his touch made his stomach scream in agony. His body was sweating so much the costume slightly got stuck on his skin, causing some discomfort.

"Yes! Dracula is my favorite." He followed her footsteps, and cautiously examined her. "I liked your witch costume, by the way. Cool hat."

The door was answered relatively quickly, and he smiled the instant his eyes hovered over the figure standing there, trying not to freak out while he realized that moment was really happening.

Her house was as extravagant and flashy inside as it was outside. It didn't have any other places nearby, only surrounded by a forest and a lake that could be seen through the glass walls. He knew the party wasn't going to be something huge, so the small number of guests there didn't catch him by surprise. His presence was the only unexpected thing that night because the Vaughan were extremely popular in his school, and popularity was never something he achieved. He would never have been there if it wasn't for the tutoring he provided their daughter, which fortunately made them very close.

"Hello!" He reached out for her, unable to stop the eye contact between the two like every other time they were together. Her beauty was capable of stealing deep sighs from anyone; that was a fact.

"Dracula?" The blonde made a gesture with her head and gave him passage, completely ignoring his motion. She always did that.

"Thank you." She smiled calmly as if she wasn't turning his mind into a hurricane with that act.

His body quivered as her parents walked towards them, and he forced a smile the moment he was introduced. The only thing he hated more than presentations was family gatherings.

"Finally! I started to think you wouldn't come." Her father was the first one to speak up.

"I wouldn't miss an invitation like that for anything! I'm Johnathan. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Vaughan."

"There's no need to be that formal, you can call me Ethan. This is Glenda, my wife."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Johnathan. I hope you're enjoying the party."

"The pleasure is all mine." He briefly paused, feeling a lump in his throat. He couldn't help but look at them, noticing how they were all exquisite. "Yes, I am. It's fantastic!" And it was indeed.

Only a few people, relatively low music, the food at ease. It was like a dream. Maybe even better than a dream.

He felt his hand electrify the instant it got in touch with hers, waving goodbye as they walked away from her parents.

"Let's dance!" She pulled him to the energetic crowd located in the center of the living room, clearly excited by that idea.

He nodded and decided to follow her, feeling his legs failing him. He was a lousy dancer, and the last thing he wanted was to cause a bad impression. However, she didn't seem to be bothered by that fact as they kept on dancing while she led the way.

"Why don't we go up to my room?"

"Me... Me... and you?"

"Yes, that's the idea." A funny smile took over her face, clearly delighted by the baffling image in front of her.

"The... The two of us?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out if that invitation was a fragment of his imagination or not.

She let out an intense laugh, guiding him to her bedroom by the hand. Her soft and warm skin rubbing against his made him go to the moon and back in just a few seconds.

He tried capturing all the details she was hiding from the world when they got there with a gleam in his eyes. Her clothes tossed all over, her vinyl collection and her almost entirely scrapped posters revealed parts of her that were unknown until that moment.

"I didn't know you like Dirty Dancing."

"And who doesn't like it?" She funnily lifted her eyebrows, sitting at the edge of her bed.

"You're right." He smiled as his eyes met hers, making his heart explode. He enjoyed getting to know her. She was an enigma he wanted to solve. "So, how do you like your new city?" He cleared his throat and walked towards her, examining their surroundings.

"It's cold here and I don't have to worry about boring neighbors, so I'd say it's good."

"Yeah, you're right."

Suddenly all words in the world meant nothing anymore. The silence just ate him alive. He crossed his arms, keeping his posture curved. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"What's the problem?" Her calm voice caught his attention.

"Nothing. I was just thinking."

"Come here."

His legs began to move instantly, obeying her. He held his breath for a few seconds after she got up and rested her hands on his shoulders, feeling his brain melts.

"Lie down."

He did it without hesitating, keeping his eyes on hers. At that moment, he would do anything for her. Her hands lightly caressed his curls while she fit her body over his, smiling naughtily.

"Honey?" Her father's voice made his heart collapse, breaking the mood between them. The possibility of being caught made him go insane, but when he tried to let her go, his movements were restricted with no effort.

"Keep calm," she whispered, keeping her deep black eyes on his. It wasn't long until he returned to his previous position, extremely relaxed. "Yes, dad?"

"It's already midnight. Dinner is served." His footsteps grew distant, signaling they were alone again.

"Dinner? You didn't mention anything about dinner, Astrid."

Her face turned slowly towards him, revealing preys that weren't there before. He frowned, assuming those characteristics couldn't have come out of nowhere. That was humanly impossible. The only plausible explanation for that was this detail just got unnoticed by him during that night, and that was the thing he relied on during that moment.

He jumped as he heard cries of despair coming from some of the lower floors, widening his eyes and breathing heavenly as his mind flooded with all that affliction. He needed to know what was happening to the other guests. Standing there wasn't an option. Yet, she prevented him from getting rid of her arms with a vitality he didn't know she had.

"Have you lost your mind?" He plucked his eyebrows, feeling his throat scratch. The rhythm of his heart could be heard from miles away. "Aren't you listening? They need help!"

She smiled, pulling his hair back and revealing the full extent of his neck. His pulsating veins made her eyes fill with lust, thirsty for what was about to come.

"Happy Halloween, Johnathan."

The pleasant and intense words were the last thing he heard before feeling a sharp prick take over his skin, something that promptly took over his body. Tears began to roll ceaselessly as his lungs burned in torment with all his screams for help, continuously moving his body in an attempt to get rid of her. Still, all that effort was in vain. It didn't take long for his eyelids start getting heavier until darkness was the only thing he had left.

THE MIRROR IN THE ATTIC

BY ASENA F. ! TUMBLR: ASTRALIS-ELYSIAN. TW: WILL MANIPULATION, SLIGHT SENSE OF UNREALITY

Yingruo stood before the old door, the aged wood the only thing keeping her out. Mother liked to tell her not to go into the attic. “All you’ll see there is the cursed mirror, and then you’ll never come back.”

The mirror, again. That was all Mother wanted to talk about. The stories about it changed, of course, for the human imagination is endless and there is no telling where truth begins and lies end.

The mirror will consume your soul. The mirror is haunted. The mirror, the mirror, the mirror.

Yingruo was very sick of the mirror.

It was… plain, to say the least. Just a flat pane of glass fitted in a simple brown frame mounted on the wall. It was the only thing Mother’s stories could agree upon, like they were one ever-expanding group of children constantly at odds with each other. One claimed that it was the same height as Yingruo, but then another had said that it was small and round, the center at eye level. Yingruo didn’t know which version was closest to the truth, so she believed none.

Just like how she didn’t trust Mother, or the house they lived in ( at the top of the hill far from the city ), or the world, really.

There was something off about everything that it made it hard for her to connect with anything.

And as for Mother, in Yingruo’s opinion, she was a very eccentric person. She was neither strict nor a doormat; in fact, she seemed to be nothing worth noting at all, just another person one passed on the street. The only thing she did was make sure there was electricity and water in the house, that there was food on the table ( though sometimes even that she forgot, and Yingruo had to go out to get some for them ), and most importantly ( or at least to Mother, anyway ), tell Yingruo stories about the mirror.

Yingruo was also very sick of the stories.

She occasionally had the urge to enter the attic and see for herself, but the countless varied warnings in the countless varied stories had always held her back.

Until now, anyway.

Yingruo tried the rusted handle, jiggling it as softly as she could. Mother was out ( buying food? Searching for something else? ), but the house seemed to have a life of its own with the whispering curtains and rattling windows, and she wasn’t interested in waking it. At least, not yet.

The door didn’t budge, as if giving Yingruo one last chance to run. But she wasn’t interested in running; she wanted answers.

And answers she would get.

Yingruo took a few steps back, aimed, and kicked the spot next to the handle as hard as she could. The door swung open with a reluctant groan, revealing a dark room cluttered with cloth-covered objects, large and small ( and probably stacked at least four high too ). She turned to peer down the staircase ( what for? not like anyone was home ) then stepped in.

Yingruo’s shoes left clear prints in the heavy layer of dust that coated the floor, and she frowned down at her feet. The door slammed shut and she jumped, sending up a cloud of the stuff. Coughing, she shuffled away and tried to peer around the stacks, hoping to spot the mirror.

Yingruo took in the small area. There was barely any space to move around, most of it having been filled in with various items in different states of disrepair and misuse.

And then, there, tucked away in a corner, nearly hidden from where she was standing, was the thing she’d been looking for.

The mirror.

She wove her way around the other things and came to a stop before it, a healthy seven steps away. Which, incidentally, was about the furthest she could go before her back hit the large stack behind her. And in the mirror, a girl gazed back.

Strangely enough, the girl was not her.

Yingruo took a step closer, almost subconsciously, as if now that she’d taken a good look at the mirror, it’d thrown a lasso around her, and was slowly reeling her in, a fisherman with his catch. Her mirror-self had hair a tad glossier than hers ( for hers was as black as it could get, anyway, like you were looking into a demon’s soul ), and eyes just a bit browner.

“Hello, Yingruo,” her mirror-self said, and she froze. Reflections couldn’t talk, could they? Then again, she realised she’d never uttered a word for as long as she could remember.

How does one speak?

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” They giggled. “At least, I don’t have to.” A beat passed, and then— “Ah ah ah, have you forgotten what Mother told you about touching the mirror?”

Yingruo looked down and tried to stagger back, only to find she couldn't move. She was only two steps away from the mirror now, which meant four steps had been taken and she didn’t even notice. Four steps gone, in the blink of an eye. Where had her mind been, as she’d walked forward? She could’ve sworn the path before her had widened, as if the attic had expanded to try and get away from the mirror.

That close, Yingruo could see that there was smoke swirling about on the other side. Lots of it, but there was only the dust particles floating in the stale air next to her. Was there a fire in the mirror?

Could a fire even exist, in a place where reality was never what it seemed and things were not living? Could it?

“I’m perfectly real, Yingruo.”

No, you’re not, she wanted to shout back.

I’m the real one.

“Real people can talk, though. Can you?”

Her mirror-self dropped to the floor, and she, too, got pushed down by an invisible force. The wood creaked in protest at the sudden impact, and she winced.

“Real people,” they went on, “feel things.

Do you? Have you ever felt anything beyond that vague sense of disconnectedness?”

Yingruo didn’t reply. She didn’t know how to, anyway, and she didn’t have an answer either. Was that why she never felt like she belonged in this world? Was she even from this world?

There were too many things being unlocked within her, a collection of chests with the long-lost keys suddenly found, and Yingruo didn’t know if she wanted it to continue.

“Have you ever paused to wonder,” said her mirror-self, “if you were the reflection, and I was the real person?” Their hand pressed against the glass, and, against her will, so did Yingruo’s.

Smoke and flesh met the cool surface on either side, and then Yingruo blacked out.

“I’m surprised you never wondered why Mother was so distant with you,” Yingruo’s mirror-self remarked casually, leaning against something covered in white cloth. Their voice sounded distant, like they were standing on the opposite side of a long bridge.

Yingruo sat up, and found that she felt a lot lighter than she had in years. And were those... tendrils of smoke curling around her hand?

No, that couldn’t be right. She was in the attic. Or had been, anyway. The smoke belonged firmly in the mirror. Which also meant— “Thank you for freeing me.”

Some of the smoke had travelled through and still lingered around her mirror-self. Or was she the mirror-self, now that she was the one in the mirror? She knocked experimentally on the window that was her only way out.

Only cold glass met her knuckles.

They smiled. “I’m afraid two have to touch for the change to work again. And seeing as Mother is well aware of that fact, and we live in a house on a hill far from anyone else, well, you’re in for a most boring vacation indeed.”

They stood, and though she fought to remain sitting, so did she. “So long, Yingruo. I hope you’ll realise why the change worked. Not any pair can swap places like that, you know.”

They turned and left, small wisps of smoke trailing in their wake.

Which also meant that Yingruo was trapped in the mirror, and would be for a very long while.

Well, that certainly sucked.

-

Yingruo didn’t know how long she had been in the mirror. She didn’t want to know. Time had been simplified to periods of light and dark, as determined by the tiny window in the roof of the attic.

She banged on the glass relentlessly, from when the light seeped in to when it receded.

Sleep did not happen on this side of the mirror. Sleep technically didn’t happen before she was trapped, either, but it didn’t matter now.

Days, months, maybe even years, and she was still stuck here. The smoke had not once gone away, and no one had come up after her mirror-self walked out. Did Mother know she was in here? Would she even care?

And then, after what seemed like an eternity, Mother stomped up the stairs, Mother stood in front of the mirror, Mother said sharply, “You fool.”

I am not a fool, Yingruo wanted to insist. But of course, she couldn’t.

“Don’t be so dense,” Mother snapped, slamming a hand on the glass. It shook, the image vibrating for a second, but strangely enough, Yingruo didn’t swap places. No blackout, no sudden rush of wind, nothing. She remained firmly in the mirror and Mother remained firmly in the attic.

How? Mother smiled grimly. “You don’t know, do you?” She sneered. “You’re the reflection, girl.

I put your true self in the mirror because they were a smoke demon. Lord knows where they came from; I certainly didn’t give birth to a monster.”

Not any pair can swap places like that, you know. Of course. They were reflections, mirror images of each other, so they could switch spots.

“I told you to stay away from here,” Mother went on, seemingly oblivious to Yingruo’s rising panic. “I told you over and over, in stories, and they may not be the same but they all had the same message. And you didn’t listen. You didn’t listen, you weak child, you didn’t listen, you—” Mother never got to finish her statement, her rising voice suddenly cut off, her whole body disappearing in a cloud of smoke. A moment later, Yingruo’s mirror-self materialised, the smoke parting to reveal them, hand on their hip.

“We meet again,” they say. “So, how has confinement been treating you? Oh, sorry. I forgot you couldn’t speak.” Their laugh was high, an eerie song that called the creatures of the night.

Yingruo pounded on the mirror again, the glass as unforgiving as the reflection standing before it. Smoke twirled around them, nearly touching the mirror but not quite. Her mirror-self smiled indulgently.

“I hope you have a good time,” they said, and left.

Yingruo swung her fist at the glass, and did it again and again and again, until the light from the window disappeared and reappeared, and even then she kept going.

There was, apparently, at least one good thing about never feeling anything and never needing sleep.

The city expanded over time, and there would come the inevitable moment when the buildings spread to the base of the hill where Yingruo’s house stood. And then the stories began to be told, of the house on the hill; of the strange incessant pounding; of the shrill laughter; of unexplainable things that were explained away anyway, for why would adults want their children’s imaginations troubled by such terrible thoughts?

“The house is haunted. The moment you get near enough, you’ll hear a constant pounding that never stops.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s probably just a faulty door and some wind.”

“Hey, did you hear that screaming?”

“I told you, it was the wind! Haven’t you checked the weather forecast? A storm is coming today.”

And on it went, the children asking about the house, the adults denying it; Mother giving up on wrangling the smoke demon, said smoke demon wreaking havoc wherever they went, and Yingruo, hitting the mirror incessantly.

Sometimes, she could see wisps of smoke curl in from the window.

THE BOY WHO KEPT ON WALKING

BY EVA RIDENHOUR

Growing up here means dust. You know that, of course--I watched you and your little brother grow up in that house your whole lives. You know all too well the way the dust settles in your throat and cakes under your fingernails. Automobiles kick up dust when they drive down the streets, same with your rusty old bicycles or even just a good old pair of walking shoes. These days folks stay inside when they get the chance, and I can't say I blame them all that much. Back when I was in school, though, we spent our time in the streets, breathing in all that dust. I never liked it, but George and Martha liked the sunshine more than they hated the grime, and I was never one to protest whatever activity they chose for the day--kicking around the old ball in the school yard, dancing out on the train tracks after curfew.

Ma and Pa used to say the Lawrence boy's parents had dust in their skulls. Looking back, I reckon they were right, though at the time I never really understood what they meant by that. Story goes they met, married, and shut themselves away in their thatch-roofed house on the hill quick as they could. They were awful cold people under it all, I think-Pa was friends with one of their neighbors who said they didn't much care for the others who lived on their street. We'd see them at church from time to time, too, but they didn't seem to care much for each other then neither. They kept their expressions vacant as an empty lot, wore clothes the color of the dirt roads that crisscross our little town.

They had their son around the time I was born, I suppose. We didn't see him until we were in our early teens ourselves. The teachers said he'd been homeschooled, and we all figured that was why he was always acting so strange. His eyes seemed as empty as his parents' sometimes. Still, Martha took a liking to him, and George and me didn't mind him all that much. George always said he had his moments, not that I ever saw them. He started hanging around with the three of us at harvest time, mostly at Martha's insistence. She always said she felt sorry for him, on account of his not having much in the ways of friends. I remember the first time Martha asked him to kick the ball around with us his eyes went wide as dinner plates. George and I got a real laugh out of that. He never stayed too long on those afternoons, always said he was needed at home or that his parents would get awful mad if he was late. His voice was always so soft, a little bit scratchy, like it hadn't been used in years and years.

Martha got the closest to him out of all of us. I reckon she thought his distant nature was mysterious, maybe romantic. George and I used to tease her after he left, but she wouldn't have any of it. Sometimes she'd ask to walk home with him. He'd always say "alright, I suppose," and the two would head off together, up the old dirt path from the schoolhouse, kicking up dust as they went.

He was all Martha could ever talk about after that. She started asking me to do her hair in the mornings before school, wanted it put up in these little braids that hung long down her back, tied up with pink ribbons. I always liked how her hair felt when I did it up, but I thought it looked just fine down, and I told her so. She never paid me any mind, though, said she had to look her best. Ma said she'd gone and gotten the boy crazies when I told her, said I'd be that way soon, too. She was wrong in the end, but I never told her so.

I tried talking to George about it all--Martha's absences started getting to me after a while. It was fun, just George and me, but Ma's words about boy crazies rung in my ears, and sometimes I'd see him looking at me in a way I never felt too comfortable about.

George was a sweet boy, but lord, he was nothing to write home about.

Eventually, the boy started waiting for Martha at the schoolhouse gate after class. The boy's parents never let Martha come inside that old house, mind you, but she didn't care too much, and walked up that hill with him every day after school. She said he loved walking, that they'd take a different way each day. He told her it was freeing--the one time of day he felt unmoored, free to wander through the fields thick with dead grass, to explore the muted, dusty streets, to smell the hot summer air, the corn crops that border every edge of the town.

And that's just the way things were for a time. Martha started walking to school instead of biking so she could walk with the Lawrence boy, and George sent an elbow into my side any time my glare got too intense when I looked at the pair of them.

Only one day the boy didn't come to school. He didn't wait for Martha at the creaky wooden gate to the main road like usual. We thought he was sick--he was hardly the picture of health--but his absence stretched days, then a week. At first I didn't think too much of it. If anything I was pleased, on accounts of Martha's staying with George and me after school to play around. It was like old times, excepting the bags that grew under Martha's eyes with each passing day.

One afternoon she snapped. After class she dragged George and me up the hill to see if he was home. The walk up that hill was awful long, and there was something foreboding about the shadow the house cast down on all of us. The narrow path seemed to stretch impossibly far. George kept trying to grab my hand as we followed Martha. I couldn't tell if it was out of fear or not, but I remember wishing he'd stop being such a baby. I had to shake him off a fair few times. Eventually we made it up, but the door was no less foreboding from our place on their little porch. It was Martha who made a dash to knock at the door, brave as she was.

It was the boy who answered. He held his books under one arm, like we'd caught him about to set off for the schoolhouse. He looked odd, though--something in the way he clutched his books in front of his stomach, the way his hair stuck to the side of his face, dripping with what I assumed was water. Later, George swore he'd smelled something awful on that porch, metallic and grimy. Martha asked him where he'd been, I remember, and there were tears in her pretty eyelashes as she did. He just smiled, said in that dry, scratchy voice of his, "I'm just here to get my things. I thought I'd go for a walk."

Two days later they found his body in the riverbed, stomach a gaping hole, skin bloated and decayed from all that time in the water. The police said it'd been a knife wound, said he'd been dead for a month, thrown in the river to hide what had been done.

They never found who killed him. George reckoned it was his Ma and Pa, and I'm inclined to agree. Dust in their skulls, like my Ma and Pa always said. Folks didn't see the Lawrences too much after that, anyway. They stopped coming to church, stayed shut up in that house completely. A few of their neighbors pitched in to bring food up to them every week or so. Ma said I should volunteer to help out, but I couldn't bear the idea of walking up that hill ever again.

You know Martha never cried? Not when the news came out, not at the funeral, not for weeks and weeks after. I tried talking to her about it a few times after the fact, but she said she wasn't sad at all because the poor boy hadn't died in the first place. She just said he'd gone for a walk; only this time he wouldn't come back.

And maybe I can understand that. For all my griping, there was something sad about the boy that none of us, Martha included, could never quite get our fingers on. Maybe if you're trapped for that long, all you'll ever want is freedom. Maybe for the Lawrence boy that freedom couldn't be found anywhere but in his walking.

George and Martha and I stopped talking a few months later. There wasn't any sort of fight or falling out, but none of us could quite stand to look each other in the eye anymore. They went on to marry two other folks from our school, a few years ahead. I went to Martha's wedding. She wore pink ribbons in her hair. You know me, of course, I stayed alone up in this house here most of my life. At least until your little brother and you showed up at my door.

I still wonder about the Lawrence boy. Maybe Martha was right, and he's still out there. I hope he's found some wonderful things out in all that world, out in all that walking. I wonder if he found more freedom in his death than the rest of us could ever dream of in our little lives. Lord knows if I could find peace like he did, I'd probably start walking too.

“Looks like you’re the last appointment of the day.” “...”

“Oh chin up, old chap. After this, I get to go home.”

The gravedigger, lantern cradled in one hand, hunches over the corpse. The body’s wrapped in scrap fabric. Maybe a long time ago the yellow was more cheery and the red spot more indicative of flowers. The only thing left unwrapped is the face.

“Aren’t you one of them, hmm, Martinezes?” the gravedigger asks the body, squinting to make out the features underneath the disease’s destruction. “Old Tom! I never forget a face!”

With a sort of glee, the gravedigger sits upright. They laugh until they start to cough the deep, dry, rattling way everyone with the disease coughs.

WHEN THE LIVING STOP BURYING

BY JACK ESCOBAR TW: DEATH

Though the skin is grey and every orifice weeps a thin, watery liquid resembling blood, the gravedigger knows the shape of the half-rotted nose under all the sores and the color of the eyes behind the film all corpses have.

“Shame. Came back just in time to see the world end.” The gravedigger shrugs.

“Should’ve stayed in South Dakota, in my opinion. But this place has nice sunsets.”

Into a half-dug hole, the gravedigger tosses in a ladder and a shovel. With the lantern’s handle clasped in their teeth, the gravedigger slides off the edge and into the hole, bringing down at least three shovels of sand with them. The lantern stays lit, flickering as it’s jostled.

The gravedigger gets to work. Already, the half-dug hole is up to their waist. It needs to be six feet deep. Over their head.

“Don’t feel too bad, old chap,” the gravedigger tells old Tom Martinez’s corpse. “At least it’s cooled down a bit. I can’t tell you how rough it was to dig graves around rattlesnakes.”

There’s nothing but the shovel grating against sand, load after load of dry, lifeless earth hefted out of the hole.

“Didja know the Natives say the snake’s the keeper of their stories? Can’t tell a single one or else someone will get bit.”

More shovels of sand hefted out of the hole, now with the first couple pebbles.

“Me? I think it’s a load of shit, even if I am part of the tribe. ‘s not like there’s gonna be people listening anymore to stories. Only you lot. And even then for just a moment.”

Another shovelful hefted out of the hole. The gravedigger’s glad this isn’t the first body they’ve had to bury. The toll on the muscles is agony the first couple times. Now it’s plain agony on the joints.

Somewhere close by, there’s a rattling in the stillness of the night. The gravedigger pauses, shovel blade sunk in the dirt. And they listen.

A snake slithers on the sand, a dry whispering sound like old books.

With a shrug, the gravedigger gets back into lifting the earth out of the hole. It’s no business of theirs.

“So, like I was saying. World’s gone to hell in a handbasket,” the gravedigger rambles to old Tom Martinez’s dead body. “Can’t go anywhere these days. All closed down. And even if they’re not, I’m not having those white folks in forts point guns at me. No sir.”

More shovels of rocks hefted out. Here, the earth is cool and moist. The gravedigger’s up to their shoulders by now. It’s still not enough.

“Shame your daughters all died before you got here. Shame you missed the burials too, but we were running short on time. Same way I’m running short now.”

The gravedigger gets up to their eyeballs in the hole before they have to pause. Leaning heavily on their shovel, they cough for a good long while. There’s no telling since their watch stopped weeks ago. It’s a dry, rattling cough that used to mark the end of days.

There’s a second rattling, softer than the cough but loud not to be creosote brushing against the fence.

“Ain’t no one putting me in a hole yet,” the gravedigger says, reaching up and over the edge of the hole to pat old Tom Martinez’s wrapped shoulder. “I got life in me yet.”

Flecks of blood spray the cool, moist earth. But no one will mind. There’s hardly anyone around, these days.

““White folks we started cremating,” the gravedigger continues, more rambling to themself than the body. “Not enough space for all the tourists in our boneyard. Not sanitary either to have them rotting in the street like that.”

The hole’s well past their head now. The gravedigger props the ladder at one end of the hole. Lantern in their teeth and shovel swung over their shoulder, they climb out. The gravedigger sets the lantern down.

With the blade of the shovel, they roll old Tom Martinez’s body into the grave. The body lands with a wet thump.

“No cremations tonight,” the gravedigger says. “Last appointment for tonight. Maybe forever.”

They shovel in the sand, shovel grating against the rocks.

“When the first folks dropped like flies, I used to bathe between every burial,” the gravedigger says to the corpse. “Then there wasn’t any time. Just onto the next hole and the one after that. Grave after grave.”

There’s that rattling again. Not the cough. A snake. The gravedigger knows the sound by heart and by all the times they started a grave only to find it full of a nest of writhing, scaly bodies with mouths open to show off their fangs.

But it’s not close enough to be any concern.

“I’m glad they took all the beer in the panic and left all the hard stuff. You wouldn’t believe how nice a vodka cranberry is under a full moon. And I learned to make a mean martini.”

The hole’s half full. The moon’s risen to its full, a yellowed sliver in the sky. Like an infected bite.

“If you need anything, just holler. I’ve taken to sleeping in the pitiful shack they pass off for a cryhouse. Not that lots of people need a house to cry in anymore.”

With the last shovelful of earth, the gravedigger sighs. It’s another grave filled. Maybe the last grave that’ll ever need to be filled.

Pulling a flask out of their pocket, the gravedigger catches a glimpse of their face. Grey skin. Sores turned to scars. The open sores ooze thin, watery blood. They take a swig, letting the whiskey burn it’s way down their throat. Then the gravedigger pours a shot’s worth out onto the fresh grave. Same as they’ve done for everyone.

“Headstone,” the gravedigger tells themself, setting their shovel down and taking their lantern.

There’s a ring of rocks by the cryhouse that’s perfect for carving names into. No one’s kept track of time too well, so the gravedigger doesn’t bother with birth or death dates.

Just names.

They pick a rock, squat down, and chisel the words OLD TOM MARTINEZ into the stone.

Rolling it back to the grave takes a while. They have to pause a few times to cough, flecking their path across the sand with blood. It takes time to roll the rock back, but the crude headstone gets where it needs to by old Tom Martinez’s grave. The gravedigger turns it around the right way, name facing out.

When the last bit of chores done, the gravedigger stretches, the bones of their back popping. With a satisfied groan, the gravedigger picks up their shovel, sinking the blade into dry earth.

It’s quiet. The rattling they’ve been hearing all night is gone. Probably scared off. Snakes are odd creatures. Like cats.

The lantern casts long shadows over the sand. By now, the gravedigger knows all of them. Themself, the crude headstones with names etched into their faces, the creosote mummified with no rains to soothe them.

Past the cemetery’s barbed wire, the houses stand empty on the next hill. The gravedigger remembers every family who used to live there, every child playing on the blistering sidewalks in the summer and every man washing his cars in the desert heat. All of them long gone and buried.

The gravedigger catches a glimpse of scales slithering across the sand and a yellow eye.

The grave digger knocks the lantern over, darkening the cemetery. For a moment, they listen. No rattling except in their chest.

The gravedigger stoops to take their lantern and teeth sink into their hand.

TOXIC BY SEIGAR THIS SERIES HAS A DOUBLE INTENTION, IT WORKS AS A PERSONAL RELIEF FROM THE NEGATIVE TIMES WE ARE LIVING IN, AND ALSO AS A GLOBAL WARNING SIGN TO KEEP A DISTANCE FROM TOXIC PEOPLE AND SITUATIONS. IT WAS A WAY TO EXORCISE MYSELF FROM THESE HARD MOMENTS THROUGH CREATION. THE DARK SYMBOLS CAPTURED: RAZOR BLADES, DRUGS, SOCIAL NETWORKS, A KNIFE, A BOTTLE OF ALCOHOL, THE NEWS, A BROKEN GLASS, MONEY, AND AN ICE PICK WERE PLACED ON COLOR FABRICS TO MAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS POP. THERE IS NO NEED TO SUFFER FOR FREE. GET AWAY FROM TOXIC. THE FINAL MESSAGE IS LIBERATION.

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www.ogmamagazine.tumblr.com Published monthly by Ogma All images are either by our resident photographer Khushi, stock photos from Unsplash or submitted to us by contributors

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