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Imagine a healthcare experience where you are more than just another patient in the system. Someone whose unique needs, story, and health are intimately understood and valued. That’s what concierge medicine is all about. It’s personalized care designed entirely around you. No rushed appointments. No long waits. No more health insurance or corporate interests interfering.
Just you, your provider, and a focus on what matters most—your health and well-being.
At The Cove Concierge Medicine, we’ve taken this model to the next level. My husband, John Waters, APRN, and I (Dr. Block) are here to provide more than just great care. We’re here to listen, to partner with you, and to ensure that every aspect of your health—physical, mental, and emotional—is supported. You’ll have access to us whenever you need, whether it’s a quick question or an in-depth conversation about your treatment plan. We’re committed to being the healthcare providers who reliably make time for you.
Why you should consider us: We’re not just a concierge practice; we’re a practice built for you. As Q+ trained providers who are part of this community, we understand the unique challenges our community faces in healthcare, and we’re here to change that! From wellness and preventative care to hormone therapy and mental health support, you’ll receive expert care that respects your individuality and helps you be your best self.
At The Cove Concierge Medicine, we don’t just treat patients—We celebrate them. If you’re looking for healthcare that puts you first and delivers the level of care you deserve, I invite you to join us. You’re not just choosing better healthcare—You’re choosing a better, more empowered life.
Sponsored Content
FROM THE
Gals, ghouls, and nonbinary ghosts, we are pleased to present the first-ever OFM-produced issue of Suspect Press!
For those who aren’t familiar, Suspect Press was a literary magazine that was produced quarterly pre-pandemic, catering to literature lovers of all kinds and heavily representing the queer community. After the publication folded in 2020, OFM
Are you okay? I care about you and want you to know I’m here if you want to talk.
I’ve noticed recently that it seems like you are drinking (or using) more than usual. Would it be okay if we talked about the amount/what you are drinking/using?
EDITOR
acquired rights to the name and decided to keep the legacy going.
Eventually, we plan to bring the magazine back to an even larger degree, but for now, we’re producing a special October issue each year featuring fiction. This year, all the stories are bone-chillingly spooky.
TRIGGER WARNING: Queer horror often pulls from the things we fear the most, including sexual assault, violence against queer people, body horror, and psycho-
logical distress. If any of those things are triggers for you, proceed with caution.
Don’t worry, we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming, including election coverage, in our November issue, and we’re still doing plenty of that online. But for this issue only, take a break from the real world and indulge your horrific side.
-Addison Herron-Wheeler
You know best what help you might need, and I am here for you too. What do you think I could do that would be most helpful for you right now?
How can I best support you?
Can we find a day/time to check in with each other again?
Are there any self-care activities that you’ve been doing lately? Anything you would like to do together?
Questions to Ask Your LGBTQ+ Friend or Loved One About Their Mental Health
Are you having any thoughts about suicide or self-harm? How would you feel about us reaching out to 988 together?
It is normal and valid to feel unsure about how to bring up mental health. First, let your friend or loved one know that you care and are there to listen without judgment. Find a private, quiet space and allow plenty of time to have a meaningful conversation. To ease into the conversation, you can start by asking these questions. Remember, opening up can take time. If they are not quite ready to share or to answer specific questions, offer general support and explore ways you can help them connect with resources they trust.
Ican’t sleep.”
I’d be amazed if you could, Bunny.”
Laurie rolled over and pulled the beaded cord of the night stand lamp. The room filled with a comforting tangerine haze through the smoke. Horizontally, she wriggled to close the space between her and her lady, resting her head in the magical crook between thigh and stomach.
Jane lifted her joint from her lips, leaving a chocolate lip print on the filter, and tilted her head down to lay heavy-lidded eyes on her lov er girl.
Laurie’s head still spun every time Jane’s eyes met hers. It was electric, the way she loved her. She was stunning ly beautiful from every angle, and her voice rolled off her diaphragm like the Pacific did off Zuma’s shores. She could convince anyone of anything with half the words and double the comfort.
Jane’s hand tracked through the roots of Laurie’s hair, crimson nails prickling her scalp in lines that made her spine tingle. A contented sigh left her tongue in a hurry, as if coaxed by Jane’s convincing fingers.
“My Bunny,” she muttered in her gravel-road tone, twisting locks of her ginger curls
once. Her waif-thin frame had been envied in both. Bony arms, thin face, and long, long legs–barely a size zero. There had only started to be problems when they learned how she kept it that way.
“It’s Val ... you’re sure she’s OK with us staying in her room?” Laurie shifted uncomfortably, averting her gaze from Jane’s. That stare. It was boring into her skull now.
by Hailee Stegall
beds. Even when I was out, you know ...” Laurie ticked her head to the left, towards the ajar (or was it shattered? She wasn’t sure) window. “I still didn’t sleep in the beds of the summer houses we would get into. Felt wrong, I guess,” she muttered. She returned her attention to the robe tie. Where had she even gotten it? She couldn’t remember. Must have been a gift.
Oh dear. She was getting blood all over it. There was a gash in her hand she couldn’t even feel.
“Laurie.”
She snapped her attention away from the robe tie and back up to
her throat–choking her.
In her panic, she slipped backwards off the bed. She stepped on Val’s hand in the process of catching herself. She whispered sorry. It’s not like she could hear her anyways.
“Why can’t you just listen to the fucking words I’m saying?” Jane asked, the upsetting edge still in her tone despite her calmness. Her dark eyes were filled with a hauntedness that hadn’t been there previously. Laurie felt a chill creep up her spine, up her neck, worm its way into her ear and whisper: Run.
She couldn’t. Her bare feet
were rooted to the orange shag carpeting by the dark stains snaking out from under the bed. Despite the weed and the years upon yearson years of endless party drugs (and drugs that stayed around after the party), her brain suddenly felt clear. She remembered who had put the stains there, and whose veins they belonged in.
“Jane, what did we do?”
Jane’s face was stoney, eyes empty, jaw set. A statue. Maybe if Laurie, too, stood still enough, this would all go away.
“You know what we did, Bunny.”
“Janie, baby, you’re scaring me.”
Laurie never called her Janie, unless she was scaring her. Usually, the pet name worked. Right now, it did not. An eerie smile crept over Jane’s lips, completely stickered on–There wasn’t an ounce of feeling behind it.
“How do you not remember? You were there. Your mind is everywhere today.”
Laurie was fighting off the drugs still in her system. They were threatening to pull her under again; her brain was clawing for another hit, and her heart was thrashing into her ribcage like a bird begging to be freed. Shakily, she settled back onto the bed, trying to piece together the evening.
“Where did I get this robe, Janie?”
“Val gave it to you. She said
you looked good in orange.” Val. Val was wearing it. Why wasn’t she wearing it anymore?
Laurie shifted her weight on the bony leg that was crooked under her and pasted on a smile. “Well, that was awful sweet of her,” she giggled, using the last of the pot haze and the delirium from her cravings to play the part of the innocent, stupid, brainfried girlfriend.
Jane seemed to ease up a bit. Her smile seemed to become less plastered on, more genuine. It was almost scarier than before. “Yeah, it was. And you thanked her, and then she said she had to go to her mom’s, remember?”
Her mom was dead.
“Right, yeah. Right,” she mumbled as she leaned into Jane. She could feel her heartbeat in her shoulder blades. The burn was still angry, radiating, searing into every inch of her skin. She traced her fingers up to her elbow, the track marks still raised and tender. A hit would fix this.
A hit was how we got here.
Why is the window broken?
She turned her gaze to the window again as Jane contentedly rubbed her shoulder and picked up her book again. There was a hole in the center of it, glass on the floor.
Glass.
The gash in my hand.
Things were starting to click together.
by Leo Josefina
DOCTOR FRANKENSTEIN'S Gender Therapy Clinic
He’s worked on plenty of people, you thought, anxiously waiting in the sterile lobby.
Clean white walls, squeaky chairs with new mint-green vinyl, the floors immaculately scrubbed. If you weren’t so terrified of your own reflection, you could’ve seen it in one of the tiles.
Someone told you about Dr. Frankenstein years ago. Before you had even thought about transitioning. There were plenty of monster doctors roaming around, eager to perform surgery on whoever wanted it. All the ghouls and ghosts went to Dr. Spectra; the vampires preferred Dr. Acula, and every other monster chose Dr. Frankenstein.
You had always thought about the day you might be at one of the modification clinics. You had yearned and wanted for years and years before this, knowing that one day it would happen. Still, sitting there in the squeaky green chair and trying desperately to not look at the tiles of Narcissus, you were nervous.
You were raised in a conservative monster household, one that did not allow for any exploration of any kind. When you found out one of your friends was leaving your tiny
town to become a vampire, you were so jealous. Not only of the ability to leave, but of the support they had from their family, both monetary and emotional. You were left in the middle of nowhere all by yourself, stewing and ruminating on what could be.
You did not want to be a skeleton. In fact, you spent a lot of time each day making your skeletal features less so. Your family hated this, and after seeing you in your first skin suit, you were out the door in less than a week, follow your friend’s stale trail to the nearest big city.
When you saw your friend again, you didn’t recognize her. But for the chipped front teeth from a biking accident as kids, you might never have.
“You can’t be scared forever. It’s hard, I know, but once you start transitioning everything feels different.”
“So you drink blood now?” you laughed. Your friend nodded, a wide smile on their face, shiny fangs poking out.
“Mx. Osteo?” the nurse called from the doorway. You looked up, every bone in your body shaking.
You walked over, trying to hide your fear, but you could tell by the nurse’s eyes that she saw right through you. She gave you a warm smile and led you
down a hallway, into a room with a big metal table, several machines pumping and whirring, vials and jars of mysterious contents surrounding it.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Frankenstein will be here momentarily to start. It is hard on skeleton-born people, and the healing process is a bit longer, but he does a fantastic job. I have several friends who’ve used him,” the nurse said. You nodded, trying not to get distracted by all of the machines.
“Now, we have some reference images you sent us,” she handed you a file, letting you look over them one last time. “They’re great; you’re going to look lovely.”
The body you chose was perfect. Strong but still soft, freckles in certain skin patches but not on others. All the skin was to be dyed a light purple at your request. It cost little extra and made all the difference, you’d heard.
Dr. Frankenstein came in, jolly and springy as he went over the procedure.
“Skeletons can’t go under, of course, so you will be awake. Until we get your vitals connected, that is,” he smiled. His glasses were reflective,
making his eyes impossible to see. Still, his smile was kind and wide.
Their own body was covered in stitches and seams, it was all the rage. No one knew what they were before, and no one really cared.
To be a Frankenstein was a blessing, and one you were excited to receive.
The procedure began, lying on that cold metal table. You squirmed as you felt your rib cage fill with lungs and a heart, stapled in place.
You watched the nurse pull a long trail of intestines out of fridge, snipping them with a large pair of scissors after measuring. She did the same with the small intestine and put them in a bucket for the doctor.
“You’ll have to learn to eat, but we have lots of ways to help,” the doctor said.
After being given all of your organs, and Dr. Frankenstein programmed your brain to feel them, wires running from each organ to your skull, you began to breathe. Cold, crisp air. It stung in a way you’d never felt because you’d never felt before in your life. The doctor gently rubbed where your humerus met your clavicle, letting you adjust.
After a few minutes feeling each individual organ in excruciating detail, they put you under, the lights above leaving sparks in your vision.
When you awoke, you felt heavy. So incredibly heavy, tired and groggy. This is what it means to be a monster? You thought for a moment.
No, it certainly is not. You replied to yourself. You felt your fingers flex, but they no longer folded inward so easily. Chunks of meat were in the way. You slowly raised your hand to look at it— purple flesh covering your yellow bones. It was slightly translucent, which you enjoyed quite a lot.
The rest of your body was the same. When you were able to move, which came to you quickly, you stood in front of the mirror.
Tears ran down your cheeks. Finally, a body that felt like home. You pinched and poked at the fat you’d chosen, squeezed the muscle and rubbed a round belly. Yellow eyes like a cat looked back to you, at all of you. You had never really seen before, not like this. You could hear machines buzzing down the hall, smell the chemicals in the room and feel that cold air again on your skin.
Your body was yours. It always had been, but now, it felt like it, too.
by Richard Kitzman
Images Will Be Disturbing
Beady, red eyes zeroed in on his head, razor-sharp claws reached and clenched towards his eyes, and as serrated teeth threatened to bite his throat, Joe woke up, crying out, his eyes boinking open like a cartoon. He sat up, gasping, shaking, squinting from white fluorescent light, its electric hum buzzing in his ears. He tasted blood, shivered from the cold air, smelled its stale nothingness.
What the—Then Joe remembered: a van of creatures, his escape to an airfield, a long flight on a private jet, but nothing else after celebrating with vodka and caviar. Hated those damn fish eggs, he thought, but wait, the stewardess. Joe vaguely remembered a tall, beefy gal, odd looking, who wore lots of red. Stood on legs from here to there, he thought and grinned, oh yeah. Why does my butthole hurt? Did I have a lap dance? Or? “No way man!” And then remembering the gang’s mission, he laughed. “Libtards, gone for good!” He laughed again, hard, but stopped from a double ache, head and stomach. He struggled to focus, looked around. This was not the situation he had been promised. And why was he shivering? He was supposed to be on a beach with babes. Lots of big-breasted babes.
Instead, he found himself in what looked like an operating room with white-tiled walls—one with a large, mirrored window—and a floor that sloped to a drain in the center. He sat on a gurney; loose straps wound about him like leather snakes. A hose was coiled in a corner. Stainless steel cabinets and medical lamps encircled him. All was bright and white and shiny and sterile.
On a metal table sat bloody towels, a tray with a razor, a clipper, a steel bowl with clumps of dirty hair. His hair. He felt a peculiar draft on his face, his head. He stood up, felt hungover, nauseated. He staggered and stumbled, crawled to the sink, hoisted himself up. In a mirror, his bloodshot eyes stared at his scalp, face, and neck, all baring scabbing cuts and scrapes. “Jesus Christ—” He thought of the ditty "shave and a haircut, two bits." He snorted, then grinned, exposing grody teeth, because he still wore his favorite t-shirt, stained and ripped, over his kind of six pack: a PBR beer gut hanging over hospital pants. What happened to my Wranglers? he wondered. “And my underwear …” He was starving and thirsty, turned on the faucet, cupped his hands, gulped, coughed, choked.
A scratching noise made Joe jerk his head towards the windowless door. The scratching stopped. He limped to the door, cautiously opened it, peered into a hallway of steel and concrete. Incandescent tubes seared the ceiling like lane markers on a highway.
“Hello!” A soft echo. “Anybody here?” No answer. His feet were freezing. He looked behind him for shoes and socks, but didn't see any. Bare pads slapping the cement, he started down the hallway, so cold he exhaled puffs of vapor.
Joe came upon another hallway, then another and another, some with doors, all locked. Some dead-ended; he’d pivot and retrace steps. All corridors had cameras high in their corners. He wondered who or what there was for the eyeballs
to ogle; the place seemed abandoned. “Where the hell is everybody?” His voice and the quiet were unnerving.
At the end of one hall, a spotlight pinpointed a silvery dish. He slowly approached it, knelt down, sniffed, and so famished, he devoured the clump of hard, yellow cheese. Joe wretched, but kept it down.
He limped and turned left, right, round different corners so many times the dull, flat walls began to blur, all the rectangles becoming hallucinatory. The monotony broke when he came upon an open door. He entered a warehouse filled with large cages. Hundreds. Doors eerily open. All empty. Of what, Joe knew. “So, this is where—” But he quieted himself quickly. Somewhere among the cages, he heard a scurrying noise and the click of claws on concrete. Joe stumbled backwards, ran as best he could, heard faint sounds, hobbled towards them. He opened another door.
A blast of loud, incoherent babble roared in Joe’s ears. Above a console of switches, knobs, and sliders, a bank of television screens lined one wall. Some were labeled with weird alphabets or foreign words, some in English with logos of recognizable networks. Monitors displayed sitcoms, chick shows, cop shows, cooking and sports contests from all over the world. Some screens were black, reflecting the room’s glare, or flickered with strips of interference, or displayed the multi-colored rectangles of a no-signal screen. His favorite channel, Faux Noise, was the only screen that dis-
played static like a billion gnats.
A woman entered. Joe jumped. They stared at each other. She flipped a switch, and the din died away.
“Velcome home, Comrade Joe,” said the woman in a deep voice. She wore a short, white medical smock. She was tall with teased red hair, heavy charcoal eyeliner, thick flesh-colored makeup. Her lips were smeared with red lipstick; her fingers ended in sharp red nails, her feet in red stilettos. She liked red. Her hands and feet were big. Really big.
Joe followed her long legs that went from here to way, way up there. He thought she looked familiar, grunted, and grinned. This might not be so bad after all, he thought. Pain changed his mind. He grabbed his stomach, doubled over, sat down hard in a chair. "What was in that cheese I ate?" he wondered.
In pain Joe panicked. “Am I in a hospital?
“Vhere ve take good care uf you.”
“Oh, God!”
“God ees not here,” said the woman. “I am. I had to shafe your face and hair. Vere you sinking of joining zat band, how you say, ze ZZ Top? Zees vay, Joe, no more lice babies.”
“You know my name. Who the hell are you?”
“I,” said the woman, stressing the word and locking onto Joe’s eyes, “am Dr. Deek. Dr. Deeva Deek. I vill take care uf you. Ve never leaf our comrades behind enemy lines.”
“Enemy lines? I’m supposed to be on a hot beach with hot babes!” shouted Joe. “Not in a hospital with some, some—”
“Some vhat?”
“Let’s just say, you’re not the ride I was promised.”
“You didn’t complain on ze plane.”
“Is that why my—no, no, no!”
“Relax, vhat can I say,” said the doctor. “Change uf plans. Be wery glad you are not in Chernobyl. Zat’s vhere ve get our— my English not so good—varmints so furry vith ze sharp teeth. Da? Ees correct? Besides,” said the doctor, her eyes crinkling and her voluptuous red lips smiling, “you got your vish. Ees not zat glorious?”
“What veesh?” Joe asked mockingly.
“You forget already? I show you.”
The doctor flipped a switch, and the volume came screaming back, Joe frowning and covering his ears. She fiddled with knobs and switches on the console to lower the volume and until all the screens except a libtard network Joe hated blacked out. Its video was striped and jumbled, the audio hissy and garbled. The doctor mumbled something that sounded like curses. “Reception wery bad up here. Zees snow, eet neffer stops,” she said. “So much guddamn snow.” She smacked the console. Joe sat down hard on an office chair. The screen and audio cleared up. “Sometimes you heff to boss ze technology.”
A talking head spoke in mid-sentence. “—brutal attack on the White House leaves many questions unanswered.”
The announcer stopped, his hand pressing his earpiece, then hung his head before resuming. “This just confirmed. President Ronald Dump has died. Vice President Spike Dunce, Senate Majority Leader Snitch McKuntul, Speaker of the House Saul Pyon, and Secretary of Educa-
tion Mitzi Depuss, are also dead. Attending the celebration, the president’s favorite pundits Nan Poulter, Dora Graham, and Chucker Charleston have not survived the slaughter. Our thoughts and prayers go out to all the families. Many other cabinet secretaries and members of the president’s staff and fans have not been identified, as bodies are too disfigured. The following video of yesterday’s massacre, retrieved from security cameras, provides a horrific testimony. No audio accompanies the video. Images will be disturbing. Parental guidance is advised.”
The screen cuts to the broad perspective of a camera high in a corner. In the meeting room, voiceless conversations appear animated, attendees smile. Silent laughter follows the president’s moving mouth. People stop laughing, their attention drawn to some commotion off screen. A door flies open, whams the wall, and a horde of deformed creatures rush into the room, leap onto the attendees, chomping their faces and necks. Mouths open in mute screams, bodies scramble over furniture, over each other. The president climbs on someone, grabs and hides behind someone else, but is overwhelmed by the beasts kissing his mouth with razor teeth, gouging jagged claws into his neck, locking strong jaws onto his small hands. He tries to escape through another door, but there is no escape. For anyone. The creatures leap onto backs or heads; blood squirts on white walls; gaping eyes are soon blinded detached limbs get tossed in the air. Secret Service arrives and shoots, only to be attacked
themselves, succumbing to the horrific talons and gnashing fangs of giant beasts with repulsive lesions, beady red eyes, spiked long tails.
The video feed ended, and the talking head returned. “As disturbing as these images have been, the American public needs to know the truth. Escaping the bizarre ambush is HUD Secretary Ken Larson. He had been napping in his office during the devastating bloodbath. He is under Secret Service protection, and according to constitutional law, may soon be sworn in as our nation’s next president. No word yet as to what happened at Faux Noise affiliates around the nation. Simultaneously to the attack on the White House, all Faux Noise stations went dark.” A commercial with cartoon bears and toilet paper followed.
Joe uttered retching sounds, bent over, vomited. “The president— dead? No.” He wiped spittle from his mouth. “No. That’s not what was supposed to happen.”
“I tell you before,” said the doctor, “change uf plans.”
“They told me—supposed to kill fuckin’ libtards!”
“Dey lied,” said the doctor. “Ve rescued you.”
“I ain’t been rescued.”
“Suit up yourself.”
Joe roared and leaped at the doctor, his chair
rolling out from under him. She stepped aside; he fell to the floor, delirious, squealing, weeping. Lifting Joe like he was light as a babe, the doctor put him back into the chair. “Now be quiet,” she said, “I vant to hear.”
The newscaster returned. “— gruesome carnage began when an unknown man drove a van near the White House and opened its back door, releasing the horror of attacking animals. They wore a collar with a flashing light as though following some radio beacon. Our zoology experts describe the beasts as mutated rodents most likely from genetic manipulation and/or radiation. The whereabouts of the driver are unknown. He is considered armed and dangerous. When found, his name will be added to the deplorable list that includes John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald, American traitors, American assassins.” A picture of Joe flashed on the screen. He wore a mullet, long scraggly beard, his favorite t-shirt.
“No, no, no, I’m a patriot,” screamed Joe, “the best fuckin’ patriot ever!” Joe started to snivel. “No one’s better than me.”
Another picture appeared, of him grinning and drinking shots with a short, foreign autocrat, muscular and bare-chested.
“What the—I never, never—that, that, that’s a fake! You can’t—”
“But ve did,” said the doctor. “Looks real to me.”
“No, this can’t be happening.” Joe knew he had to get out, escape, set the record right. He rose, limped as fast as he could from the lying TV monitor, the lying doctor. “You stay away!”
“Vhere you going? You big hero,” said Dr. Deek, “and ve haff your money.”
Again, Joe ran down more cold hallways, pivoted more dead-
ends, tried more locked doors teasing him of escape. Again, he heard high-pitched squeaks, scurrying clicks. At the end of a hall he saw a stainless steel entry and above it, a sign in white letters lit on a green background. An exit sign, he hoped, in strange letters. In a frenzy, he rushed towards it, leaned on the slick door, slid to the handle, and heard faint footfalls.
The doctor’s sing-songy voice echoed faintly. “Comrade Joe, come out, come out, vereffer you are.”
Joe turned the handle. It gave, but the door was blocked. He used his aching shoulder to push hard. The door opened a crack. Icy wind and the whirr of a blizzard whooshed in. He pushed harder with all the strength he had left—“C’mon, goddammit!”—until finally the door gave way, and he plunged into a massive mound of—snow. Biting flakes blasted his face, clogged his nose, froze his breath and toes. He climbed to the top of the white heap, and through the stinging needles, he could barely see a horizon flat as a line without tree, rock, coast, river, hill. Nothing but endless white, wind, and bitter cold.
Joe backed inside, collapsed, then crawled and scrambled deliriously through the labyrinth until he wound up back in the room where he began. He knelt on the floor, hanging his head, and except for his panting, silence enveloped him. The clip-clop of high-heels broke the quiet. His eyes saw red stilettos and followed a pair of legs that went from here to there.
The doctor looked down on Joe. “I brought your hat.” She placed on his head a red baseball cap with Make America Great Again emblazoned on its crown.
“What—” Joe rasped, “—what are you?”
“Vat you sink, eh?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Your fairy godmother,” said the doctor with glee. “Da, I granted your vish.”
“What have you done to my country!”
“Vat do you care?” the doctor replied. “You got your vish.”
“What vish,” Joe asked. “I never vished to be—”
“Da,” said the doctor, spitting her response. “But you deed.”
Joe shook his head, frowned in confusion.
“You’re vearing eet.” Dr. Deek was losing her patience, her red varnished claws clicking on the countertop like castenets. “Your t-shirt so feelthy. I keep tellink you. Your vish, your vish.”
Joe did not have to look down. It was his favorite, in big letters: I’d Rather Be Russian Than Democrat.
“Velcome home, Comrade Joe,” said the doctor.
Joe lurched. “You bitch!” He missed, fell again.
“No, Comrade Joe,” she corrected. “Dr. Deek to you. Dr. Deeva Deek.”
Joe heard a scratching noise getting louder, closer. He rolled over and hoisted himself up, then whined tiny sobs. He frantically crab-crawled backwards into a corner as beady red eyes and sharp fangs and crescent claws rushed towards him, leaped upon him, ripped out his throat, his flung voice box trailing his last scream, “MAGAAAAAAaaaa!” as it faded into the frozen void.
The Garden of Devotion
The wind strikes with the
Wrath of the red right hand.
The hymns sung by grief
And split tongue bring blind warmth.
The garden of devotion erect with halcyon
Steady and sundry, moss and stone.
No longer the rush of willing movement,
Now damned, posed and interlocked.
by Arianna Julissa
Unity on sorrow, riveting from the apple of mine,
Marvel at the permanence of erstwhile sentience.
Skin now hollow from bites of defiance
Lilith lay bearing witness to new genesis.
And though the apple held rue, She orates at nothing knowingly
With yearning for crimson fruit.
FREAKY FICTION
Photographer: Ivy Owens, @ivyjune._.jpg
Model: Void Phlux, @voidphlux
by Addison Herron-Wheeler
Breedr Breedr 4
doing sex work for a while now, but only among the Clean, so it was easy—everyone knew the drill, transferred credits to their account, used correct pronouns, understood what they were agreeing to, engaged in the rules of consent.
But Romantitek was different. It was designed for the Unclean, so obviously, it was remote work. Hundreds of years ago, a virus called COVID-19 swept the Incorporated United Nation, at that time called the United States. It wasn’t anything too bad, mild by today’s standards, but it was basically the SARS virus. Even at that primitive time, the human race pretty easily developed a vaccine. But that era, known as the Era of First Dissent, was when folks started saying no to vaccines, claiming there was some government conspiracy.
That went on for hundreds of years—Every time there was a new plague or a new disease, they refused treatment, claiming that there was some master plan by the government or the medical facilities to microchip them, or make
them more sick with their vaccinations. And over the years, they slowly mutated into their own race of people, large, brutish, covered in sores, lurching, squinting through extremely thick glasses when the Clean all just got surgery for their eyesight. And though they still spoke English, it was now an almost unrecognizable dialect.
Many had feared there would be a war between the Clean and the Unclean, but war wasn’t good for the economy—at least not civil war. Instead, the conflict between the two sides festered and rotted like a bloated rat corpse in the sun. It just sort of sat there and stunk. The Unclean stayed locked up in their homes, with their guns. They mingled among themselves, content to be cut off from the Clean, who only allowed vaccinated and healthy people into their spaces.
And the country went on like that, profitable, festering, and completely divided into two worlds. For a while, it worked well, but the new generation of Unclean men were getting restless because they lost more and more women every year to folks who tried to get vaxxed and caught up with modern health standards, have their mutations removed, and, frankly, the women who did remain with the Unclean weren’t much to look at—and didn’t really look much like humans.
There had been an increase in crimes, Unclean men raping and kidnapping Clean women to try and get their rocks off or reproduce. The market had identified a real need to stop this, and Romantitek was started to meet those needs. “Meet real women near you, and if there’s a connection, set up a meet!” their slogan cheerfully read. Of course, that wasn’t true. The idea was to have men pay more and more for coins to talk to women they would never actually meet. Eventually, they would either become frustrated and leave the site, or stay on and talk to new women, but it was anonymous and, Romantitek assured, perfectly safe.
Tika, of course, was not even a woman, but they were femme and assigned female at birth, so they looked the part. And after years in food service, sex work, and customer service, even sales, they were great at taking abuse.
“When a client starts to harp on the idea of meeting up, try and avoid the subject as much as possible,” the onboarding materials read. “If a client becomes angry that you won’t meet him, just keep the conversation going. Remain calm and kind, but remember, even if they get angry and
abusive, you’re still getting paid for receiving their chats.”
Other sections were equally disturbing: “If a client sends you a pic of their genitalia, remember to act turned on and amazed. Some good strategies are to ask how all the engorgement to their member will make you feel once you do have intercourse. Do NOT act shocked and disgusted at their mutations.
“Remember, clients believe in two genders. Do not EVER refer to yourself as they/them or as a man, and use of neopronouns is forbidden. To them, you are a woman. Clients also do not believe in consent, so they won’t have the boundaries with you that you are used to having.”
Tika shuddered. Yikes. This might be a little rougher than they thought. But the pay was good—Receiving one or two messages would practically pay for a meal. And there was also video chat, which paid even better.
All logged in and waiting, Tika stared at the screen. They had been logged on and daydreaming for so long that they hadn’t even realized there was finally an active user who had pinged her.
Breedr4Breedr: Ay you, female. What your name is? You talking to anyone but me? You wanna let me put it in you and cum?
Tika read through the message, figured out what it meant, and then pushed down the horror and disgust. After a deep breath, they replied:
TikaTikaBoo: Oh hey babe, so good to hear from you. I’m not talking to anyone but you baby. Wanna call me?
They regretted the last part as soon as they sent it—Was it really worth the money to have this person call them? But before they could really think about it much more, their screen began ringing. They swiped up on the air in front of them and started the call.
As soon as the man appeared in front of them, Tika had to shove down the urge to actually vomit. His face was large and grotesque, dotted with sores and pox as well as scars. He had one main nose, then a little side nose growing off of that, and his glasses were so they she could barely see his eyes. The room behind him looked dark and dirty, and from the looks of his appearance and surroundings, Tika was unsure if he was able to get up from his chair on his own.
“Hi beautiful. I like what I see. You talking only to me?”
Tika had to ask him to repeat himself several times the accent was so thick, but finally got it.
“Yes babe, just you. How you doing today? You’re so handsome!” The fake smile was plastered to their face for dear life.
“Mmmm, leg hurts!” Breedr4Breedr
said, slowly and painstakingly lifting his leg into the frame. It was huge, engorged and red, covered in pus and bandages, with more sores then they had ever seen in one place before. Tika fought every urge that came to them naturally, which was disgust and repulsion, then concern and to ask when he was going to call medics.
These people don’t believe in and won’t get medical attention, they reminded themself. Express empathy, but don’t suggest treatment.
“Oh babe, I’m so sorry! That looks like it hurts, but it doesn’t stop you from being super cute. Hopefully it heals soon!”
“Uhhhh, wanna see you!” Breedr4Breedr cried out. Obediently, Tika lowered the straps of their tank top to reveal their breasts.
with the Unclean clients: “When can we meet? Will you come visit? I can’t wait ‘til I’m taking you to out to have filthy sex in public, or treat you to a nice romantic meal.” A lot of it, they knew, was simply fantasy. What if the world wasn’t divided, and they weren’t so horribly deformed? The clients could have a real relationship. But with some, like Breedr4Breeder, Tika feared they did not have the emotional nor practical intelligence to realize this was all fantasy, and they’d never be meeting in real life.
In the specific case of Breedr4Breedr, he loved the fantasy that Tika would carry his child, then raise it, and live in his home, caring for him and providing sex whenever he wanted it.
around, in real time and in person, they watched their door get pushed in by a giant battering ram. There stood Breedr4Breedr, in the flesh. He was covered in bandages and panting, out of breath and completely doubled over from the effort, but apparently, he had been able to get out of that chair. On his back were half a dozen assault rifles as well as what looked like some sort of bazooka fastened over his left shoulder. His insane arsenal of automatic weapons must have taken out the guards for their building. Guards who, living comfortably in the Cleans, were just used to turning away unhoused people who were mentally ill or out of work and no real threat.
Over the next few weeks, Tika knew to expect a call from Breedr4Breeder almost every shift. They always started the same way, with complaints about his obviously terrible health, and the question of whether or not they were seeing anyone else. Then, after the virtual sex was complete—something that didn’t take long, as his member was barely functional—he would ask if he could cum inside them, if they would have the baby.
A breeder fetish, Tika thought. Creepy, yes, but nothing they hadn’t encountered before, even among the Clean. Clean and Unclean probably couldn’t actually breed together anyway, and she knew the Unclean had some ancient practices around carrying even the most deformed babies to term. It probably tied in with the culture. It may have turned their stomach, but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.
Occasionally, the conversation would go the way it always did
It was night once again, and Tika rubbed their eyes and pulled out their computer pod, firing up the virtual screen. It had been an incredibly slow week, so as soon as they saw the Breedr4Breedr icon ping them, she was actually flooded with relief
Great, they thought, Keep him on the line long enough and I may actually be able to make rent this month.
Taping on the icon, they waited obediently, the plastered-on smile spread across their face, fingers poised on their lacy bra straps. But to their surprise, the screen opened, and the chair their client always sat in was vacant. The scene was even more creepy without him in it. An old, antique TV blaring Unclean propaganda sounded off to the side, illuminating the stained, filthy chair and ancient lamp with an eerie glow. All around, she could see the dressing he used for his wounds and different discarded scraps, collected in bloody piles around the filthy floor like fallen soldiers.
Where is he? She thought. She was starting to get seriously spooked.
“Babe?” She called out. “Honey? I don’t see you … Where are you?”
“GAHHH!” All of a sudden, a scream came from behind them, and as Tika, whipped
Seeing Tika huddled there in terror, their arms wrapped around their chest, Breedr4Breedr seemed to get a second wind and lunged forward.
“I knew you wasn’t ever gonna come see me; I had to come see you! Can I still put it in? You gonna have this baby?”
He was slow, but he had the element of surprise on his side, as well as an assault rifle now pointed at Tika. He stood like that for a moment, letting the question hang in the air as Tika cried and cowered. Then, seeing their breasts heaving in real life beneath their arms, he was unable to resist anymore and threw himself on top of them, knocking over the office chair and pushing them onto the ground.
Tika couldn’t help but vomit on themself as the bile rose in their throat. On-screen, Breedr4Breedr was repulsive enough, but actually being able to smell all the wounds and see the flesh in person was disgusting. Feeling his wet and slimy skin against their own was the worst feeling of all. And they could also feel a bulge in his pants that wasn’t due to any concealed weapon. It was only a matter of time before he would actually violate them and make his dream, and their nightmare, a reality.
Just as they had squeezed their eyes closed to get ready for it and try and dissociate as much as possible, they felt his full weight slam against them as he fell forward. Dead weight, Tika thought. Their partner, Meelo, had used their secure safe to smash into him repeatedly until he toppled forward. Meelo scrambled over to help pull Tika out from under the crushing weight. They both stood back and surveyed the damage. The back of his head, soft and diseased, was completely caved in, and bits of brain were everywhere.
“No way even an Unclean survived that,” Tika said through tears once they caught their breath. “Thank you so much, love.”
“No problem,” Meelo responded, wrapping their arms around Tika and holding them close. “Hazard of our trade. You better get cleaned up; I heard your phone ping. The corporate police who contract with Romantitek will be here soon to file an official report. I’ll take
the back room for my calls.
“You—You’re still going to work?” Tika choked out. “You don’t need to take the day off?”
“Babe I can’t—This will mean you won’t have clients for the rest of the day, and if they give you a hazard bonus—and we both know that’s a big if—It won’t come through for weeks. We need to make rent this week.”
Tika sighed. They knew Meelo was right. “Ok, I’ll come get you when they have questions about you defending me. Talk to you soon.” They pecked Meelo on the cheek and watched them walk slowly into the back room with their computer pod. In a few seconds, they heard a sultry “Hey babe, what are you wearing?” in Meelo’s deep, baritone voice.” They’ll be OK, they thought.
Tika turned back to the mess in the living room, not looking forward at all to cleaning it up. They noticed that Breedr4Breedr had one handhad on
the floor open and outstretched, the one he had been using to wrap around Tika’s neck. The other was still firmly clenched. Curious, they leaned forward and pried the fingers open.
In the palm of his hand was an old, analog color photo of a baby. From the looks of the photo and the person in it, it was from before the Clean and Unclean split. A small, innocent, cherubic child with blue eyes, golden hair, and pink cheeks beamed up at Tika. Suddenly overwhelmed with anger, they snatched up the photo, crumpled it, dropped it on the ground, spat on it, and ground into it with their foot until the face was barely recognizable. Then they stuffed it in their client's mouth like an old piece of chewing gum and surveyed their work, satisfied.
Take that, breeder freak, Tika thought before heading off to take a much-needed shower.
Sitting on his front porch, Ray Bates watched the orange sky ignite the sawtooth peaks of the Rockies, then gradually turn navy blue, twilight ending the summer solstice of 1984. He pulled the tab on a can of Coors and thought the snap—pisht!—was the best sound of summer, that and the chirrups of the cicadas’ evening love songs. But the snap seemed to have flipped a switch. The insects hushed, and the air crepitated. Smeared by heavenly hands, flickering bright lights spread across Ray’s horizon, undulating like shimmering opals.
Few in the town of Lipton, Colorado (population 3,019) saw the ephemeral aurora. Ray did not know what to do but gape. Absorbing so much light
became unbearable. Though he marveled at the beauty and grandeur of the sight, he instinctively went inside his tri-level home, not forgetting his beer, preferring to marvel through the presumed safety of the big picture window. The light show lasted only minutes—then nothing. Ray heard a siren’s blare a few blocks away and noticed not a star twinkled in the blackest cosmos.
He rushed into the kitchen, exclaiming, “Did you see that, that—the sky? The sky, the colors, on fire to the ground!”
His wife was talking on the wall-mounted phone. “Ray, please,” said Claire, twirling the long, coiled cord. “Nan, are you there? Hello?” She wondered how her sister got disconnected and redialed. “Yes, Ray, I saw the bright light. Are you sure it wasn’t a car’s headlights? Now the connection is all clicky.”
THE NVA IS H
“Honey,” said Ray, “ask your sis if she saw anything weird just before your call dropped.”
“I can’t. The line is dead.”
Ray flew downstairs, but instead of bursting into his teenage son’s bedroom, he knocked on the door, a grudgingly agreed-upon parental compromise. With no response, he pounded on the door and yelled his son’s name.
Colton emerged wearing a Duran Duran hoodie and earphones synced to a video game exploding behind him. Ray noticed his 9th grade son was almost tall enough to look him in his eye.
Colton unplugged and said, “Dude, my tee.”
“Dude, my dollars.” Ray did not like his son’s familiarity, but, though it was tight, did like
wearing his Daffy Duck t-shirt.
“What do you want?” asked Colton. He was impatient to end a space invasion, and his room looked like the aftermath of a losing one.
Ray chose to pick that battle another day.
“Seriously,” said Colton, pointing behind him, “the aliens are winning.”
Ray asked if anything strange had occurred in the last few minutes. Colton answered no, then noticed his Atari console had crashed. He rebooted, but the drive was just spinning, and he was not happy. Father told son not to stay up too late—son gave father a roll of eyes—and to remember to take out the trash for collection.
by Richard Kitzman
Ray turned on the TV, catching the news anchor in mid-sentence, his lips moving without sound sporadically. “—massive solar flare pushed solar winds—force of a billion hurric—Earth’s star, penetrating our weakened atmosphere. Opponents say this is not proof of climate ch—ing satellite send— dramatic pictures.” An astral film depicted a solar flare exploding off the sun’s surface, licking the dark space around it like a titanic, far-flung tongue of fire. The anchor segued to a grinning sportscaster, appearing for a minute before he could be heard. “—kies insurmountable deficit in the ninth inning—fifth loss in a row. Desperate to hang on—winning secret of the team is—” The screen went black, the secret unre-
vealed. The floor lamp flickered but remained lit.
Later in bed next to Claire, Ray felt her warmth and the air, charged and quiet. After lying awake for hours, he kicked off the covers, heard another siren, faint and far away, then fell asleep.
The next morning Ray prepared his son’s lunch. Before leaving for her beauty salon, Claire’s Hair Affair, his wife gave her husband a peck on the cheek.
“Is that all, Mrs. Bates?”
“For now, Mr. Bates.” She smiled, smoothed a strand of blond hair, grabbed her purple bag, and entered the garage.
Ray walked to the living room and gazed out the big picture window at the bluest sky. He waved to his wife driving away in her ‘69 Mustang. She was still sexy, and so was the classic car’s growling muffler. Neighbor Marty Miller was wheeling his trash can to the street; the Bates’ was invisible, and Colton was not up yet. The leaves of Claire’s aspens flickered like green coins. The marigolds, mailbox, fence, pothole: His world was still there. A perfectly normal day. Except for a van a couple houses down crooked to the curb. He opened the front door and called to his neighbor, “Good morning.”
“Not if you saw the game.” Nodding toward the badly parked vehicle, Marty said, “Coop’s Dodge. His bowling championship was last night.”
“Hard telling if he won or lost,” said Ray.
“Coop’s got a problem all right,” said Marty. “Remember the Memorial Day picnic?”
“Hard to forget,” said Ray. “Say Marty, did you happen to see that big light show last night?
About 8:30, big splash of rainbow across the sky.”
“Unlike you, I, the dedicated fan, was watching the massacre.” Gazing at the trash can, Marty scratched his deep red beard and adjusted his ballcap. “Should toss this hat.”
“Blasphemy, brother.” Ray knelt and yanked a weed.
“They were getting creamed like corn,” said Marty. “Outside got really bright. On TV, too, blacked out for a few minutes. Commentators said something about a power surge. Sound was awful. Showed nothing but stupid commercials. Game never came back on, and no paper today, but maybe—”
“They lost.”
“Hmmm. Well, thanks, Ray.” Marty tossed his hat in the trash. “Thanks for the update.”
“That’s what the news said last night. Last thing I heard.”
A teenage girl in tight jeans and a top with puffy sleeves came out of the Miller’s garage. “I need to get to school.”
“OK,” said Marty. “Get in the truck.”
“What?”
“Get in the truck.”
“Daddy, I’m right here, you don’t have to yell.”
“I did not—Say hello to Mr. Bates.”
Wendy grinned and rolled her eyes. “Hello.” She returned to
the garage and got into the Ford pick-up, Marty staring after the mystery that was his daughter.
“She gives me a headache,” said Marty, rubbing his temple. Ray smiled. “She’ll grow out of it.”
“Has Colton?”
“Maybe today’s the day.”
“The princess wants braces and bras.”
“The prince wants a skateboard and, ever since the Super Bowl, a Mac.”
“Like a Big Mac?”
“I don’t think he means a hamburger.”
“Then what’s a Mac?”
“Hell if I know,” said Ray. “I better see if my headache is out of bed. Leave without him if you need to.”
“Yeah,” said Marty, “we must not bow to the royals.” He picked out his hat from the trash, brushed it off, and put it back on.
“Colton,” Ray called downstairs, “Time to go. And take out the trash. You forgot.”
He returned to the kitchen, spread mayo on white bread, and added cheddar cheese. He put the plastic-wrapped sandwich, baggies of Cheetos and carrots, and a tangerine into a Mr. T lunch box, wondering if his boy was into some weird orange food phase. I pity the fool, thought Ray, chuckling, who tries to know what goes on in the mind of a teenager.
“Colton! Mr. Miller is waiting.” No answer. “You’ll have to walk, and don’t forget your
lunch.” Ray checked upstairs—“Colton?”—then heard the pick-up drive off. Mr. T still sat on the kitchen counter. That kid, he thought. Not a big deal, I guess. Mother Nature’s extravaganza, now that was a big deal. Odd, on the longest day of the year. He listened, didn’t move. He heard the wail of a far-off siren fade away. And the hallway clock ticking. So quiet. That was odd, too.
The phone rang, and he jumped a little. It was Claire asking him to bring her billfold. “It’s on the kitchen table. I forgot it.”
“Will do,” said Ray. “So … anything odd going on?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, anything.”
“Town seems deader than usual, if that’s possible. Barb didn’t show, but neither did her first appointment.”
“And that’s odd?”
“Not exactly. Barb’s chronically late, but Mrs. Valdéz has never no-showed. Why, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I need to stop off at Colton’s school.”
“What’s wrong with Colton? Is he OK?”
“Relax, he forgot his lunch, then I’ll bring your—” Ray heard static and a click like a hang-up, then a dial-tone. “Hello? Honey?”
He dialed his wife’s work number, and after six rings, voice-mail answered, but he hung up. He thought
Mrs. Valdéz had probably arrived. He grabbed Claire’s billfold, Mr. T, and got in his Corolla.
Passing his neighbor’s white van, Ray slowed down, then pulled into Coop’s driveway. Trash from a knocked over bin littered the sidewalk and gutter. The front door was open; through a screen door a small dog wiggled and wagged its tail like a frenzied metronome.
“Hey Moxie, where’s your daddy?” Ray rang the doorbell and called loudly, “Coop!” Not wanting to alarm his neighbor’s wife, he announced himself. “Marilyn, it’s Ray! Anyone home?”
The mutt whined and bounced, upset about something. As soon as Ray opened the screen door, Moxie sniffed his feet and jumped up to his waist. “What’s the matter, girl?”
The dog ran, and with the car door open, hopped into the front seat, yawning, licking her lips, and panting. “OK, then.”
Ray headed to Colton’s junior high school. Traffic was light. He stopped at a truck half in the right lane and half on the sidewalk. It was Marty’s Ford pick-up. The engine was running, but no one was around. He got out and shut off its ignition.
“Colton! Marty!” Within seconds of hearing a screeching siren, he sprung back when a cop car roared past him. “Jesus!” He called again and again, and for his neighbor’s daughter, for anyone, receiving no response.
Ray ran stop signs and red lights getting to his son’s school. A few bikes were chained to the stand; several lay on the grass or sidewalk, one in the middle of the street. He parked in the student drop-off lane, against the rules but a rule he felt like breaking, and rushed to the front office with Colton’s lunch box.
Miss Kinney greeted him in her clipped and feminine formality. “Good morning, Raymond.”
Twenty years seemed to evaporate, and he was embarrassed he wore a juvenile’s t-shirt. “Good morning, Miss Kinney,” said Ray. He thought the school secretary wore the same blue, ruffled blouse buttoned up to her chin as she did when he was a student. Today, she looked ancient and weary. “Have you seen Colton?”
“Why, no,” said Miss Kinney, “I’m sorry.”
“He left with Marty Miller,” said Ray, “but I saw his truck, and it was ... uh, nevermind. I brought Colton’s lunch. Would you please let him know?”
“Of course, dear,” said Miss Kinney.
“Thank you,” said Ray. “And have him call home as soon as he gets here.
She looked at the lunch box distractedly. “Quite a few absentees today, not to mention teachers. The phones … unreliable, crackling noise if anything.”
Ray was about to ask to use one to call the police about his missing son, but maybe there was a simple explanation. “Did Wendy Miller come to school?”
“Who?”
“Wendy Miller, my neighbor’s daughter.”
“I’ve not seen her either.” Miss Kinney shook her head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to, Raymond. And those lights last night.”
“You saw the sky?”
Miss Kinney leaned into her former student and looked over her glasses. “Oh, yes, about 8:30. I was making popcorn on the stove—I always do when I watch movies on TV—and suddenly the popping stopped, and so did Carole Lombard.”
“Your TV stopped?”
“Hmm? … Oh, yes. Stove, too. Such a talented lady, so beautiful,” sighed Miss Kinney with a smile. “And tragic. From a different world,” she said softly. “Oddly, the lights stayed on. But outside. That’s when I saw such a bright light. Astonishing, like I was witnessing a spectacular event that was also inexplicably distressing. I’m tired, Raymond, very tired. This world … Yes, she and I … ”
“Who, Miss Kinney?” asked Ray. “This Carole person?”
“Oh … oh, um, no … Elinor, um Miss Glenn, my, my companion …” The old woman took off her glasses, frowned, and shut her eyes, whispering with incredulity. “So sudden … mere seconds … and she just wasn’t there … but that’s lunacy … so confused, so tired. Sweet Elinor. And I keep seeing flashes of light, and hearing static like an old radio, and I don’t want to!” she shouted.
Ray had never known Miss Kinney to raise her voice.
She looked through the office window, puzzled and upset, then, through tearful eyes, said, “She’ll return; she must.”
Miss Kinney pulled out a lace handkerchief, daubed her eyes,
and replaced her glasses. “Heavens to betsy, I probably just need bi-focals and hearing aids.” She began writing names on small, pink papers. “Lots of absentee slips to fill out.”
Squished by the steering wheel, Moxie nestled in Ray’s lap, whimpering and shaking. Ray started his car and turned on the radio, hearing "Time After Time" wane to nothing. He tuned into another station, but the sound kept cutting out. “—creating auroras all ov—at the poles, but close to the equator, as near as Hawaii and Singa—ding to General Ohrman, NASA spokesman, sa—est in space, witnessing a geomagnetic storm of unprecedented size and destru—sing interruption of worldwide satellite commun—til scien—spheric activation of a viral disease of instantaneous disintegra—” And then silence. He tuned the dial along its band, receiving only static a couple times.
Ray shut off the car, stared out the windshield, and didn’t move. He ached for his son, his wife, himself, everyone. He scratched the dog’s ears for mutual assurance. “Sweet Moxie.” In the eerie quiet, the sound of his own voice creeped him out. Colton had to be somewhere. “Where are you?” whispered Ray.
He ran back inside the school, searched for Miss Kinney in the office, but found no sign of her. He stepped behind the counter and called 911, getting sounds like the crinkling of a sheet of cellophane and a recording. “What the hell?” He called Claire again and
got her recording again.
Ray walked down the hallway. A few students passed him slowly or stood immobile at lockers, staring at him. Some classrooms had a teacher and several desks occupied by students; others were empty of anyone. In Room 13, a teacher noticed him, turned her head, wide-eyed with mouth open, and seemed about to speak, but he had already rushed by the door.
Colton played the trumpet in the school band; so had Ray. He hoped his son might be in the rehearsal room. Sheet music and black stands littered the floor. Halfway up staggered risers, he recognized Kyle Bings, a tall, skinny student with acne and a crew cut. He sat next to a tuba, gaping at his weirdly distorted
reflection in the curving brass.
“Kyle?”
“Ah!” Startled, the kid said, “Oh, hi, Mr.—” He seemed to know Ray’s face.
“Bates.”
“I didn’t see you.” The kid chuckled.
“Kyle, have you seen Colton?”
“Who?”
“My son.”
“I thought I saw—” the kid began, returning to stare at his distorted face in the brass mirror, “Mr. Wolfe.”
“The band director?”
“But … sooo freaky.”
“What is?” asked Ray.
“He was here—I was waiting for—and then he wasn’t. The invisible man.” Kyle let out a goofy scoff, again hypnotized by his own grotesque reflection. “I heard snaps like that cereal with the elves, then I think I saw … freaky, man, and I haven’t smoked a thing, I swear, and then he—” His voice stuck and he swallowed hard, incapable of finishing his thought. He picked a pimple on his cheek, and it started to bleed, but he kept picking.
“Kyle?” said Ray. “Let’s get you to the nurse, then Miss Kinney.
She’ll know—”
The boy lurched up, kicking back his chair and knocking over the instrument and music stand with a loud clatter. He ran out of the room, Ray after him. He thought he saw a flash in the hallway, looked left, right, but didn’t see a trace of Kyle. “Where the hell did he go?”
He thought he’d talk with the teacher in the room he had passed, but when he looked through its window, no one was there. He called for Miss Kinney, but got no response.
Ray trotted to his car and heard the school’s front door open, then his name and brief noises like bubble wrap reports. He turned around and saw a rainbow streak for seconds. Small pink papers fluttered to the sidewalk.
As soon as Ray opened the car door, Moxie growled, barked, ricocheted off the back seat, and bolted.
He sped to Claire’s salon, but driving by the Shamrock station, he saw a gas nozzle laying on the cement, pulled in, and rehooked the hose. The owner, Bart, didn’t greet him,
and his wife, Sandy, wasn’t minding the register; it was open with cash spilling out. Behind the counter, Ray put the phone receiver to his ear and pumped the hook switch to clear the landline and connect. He needed to find his son.
“C’mon, goddammit!” Dial tone—“Jackpot!”—the loveliest droning note he’d ever heard. Ray dialed 911 … ringing … recording. He dialed again. Continuous ringing. “Somebody answer!” And again, busy signal. Ray thought maybe he had dialed wrong, but how can you misdial 911? He redialed. This time, nothing. Ray called Claire. Same results: connected, voicemail, redialed, ringing over and over, then busy signal, no dial-tone, dead. “I don’t believe this.”
Ray slammed the receiver down on its cradle and ran to his car. He laid rubber pulling away from the gas pump, but braked hard when he heard the fast approaching crescendo of a howling ambulance, a blur of red and blue lights rushing by on its way to save someone, somewhere, he hoped.
On Jackson Avenue, more derelict vehicles splayed across the lanes and onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians meandered drunkenly or ran crazily as though fleeing something. Ray opened his car window and called to them, but either they fled or stared mutely, and he knew some of them. County Clerk Molly Semple screamed. He screeched up to his wife’s salon just off Lipton’s main drag, not bothering to parallel park. Like Coop, he thought. The front door was wide open, too, but no bouncing dog.
“Claire!” No answer. No Mustang, no purple bag.
The portable TV was on with jumbled pictures and scrambled sound: Witness accounts and weird happenings, the president’s and world governments’ responses, stocking up on food and water and guns, fires and wrecks and riots, the military running amok. But in some areas, not a movement, not a sound, not a person. Then the screen changed to the emergency broadcasting test with its annoying, grating alarm, then to noisy, fuzzy gray dots. And then to black.
The world had collapsed.
As Ray backed away, he turned to the full-length mirror by the shampoo station. Scruffy, eyes bloodshot, he looked like a crazy man in a Daffy Duck t-shirt and sweatpants.
“Ray?”
He’d recognize that beautiful alto voice anywhere. Claire smiled at him in the mirror. He saw himself smile and then a flash of colorful light. He heard static and pops, and then … She disappeared. She was there. Then not there. He blinked, turned around, and saw no one. He ran to where his wife had stood. No clothes, no blood, flesh, bone. No wedding band. Nothing. No Claire. No love of his life. She was gone.
Ray dropped to his knees.
“GOD!”
The salon’s phone rang loud as a cathedral’s bell—“Jesus!”— scaring him so hard he jerked, shook his head in disbelief the phone was working, and lunged for it.
“Hello!” “Dad!”
“Colton, thank God, are you OK?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“Home,” said Colton, panting, his voice terrified.
“Dad, we were on our way to school, and then Mr. Morris and then Wendy, they, they—I’m going crazy!”
“You’re not.”
“Why is this happening?”
“I don’t know, son.”
“Have you seen Mom?”
“Yes, yes, I saw your Mom.” Ray didn’t know what else to say. “Stay put, you hear me?”
“Yes! Hurry, Dad, please, I’m so scared, and I don’t want to—”
Click.
“No, no, NO!” Silence. So quiet, his ears rang. “Colton? Colton!”
Ray ran out of the salon, shouting into the bluest sky, “I’m on my way, I love you, and—”
The last thing he heard was the roar of sharp crackling before he crossed a warm and dazzling shaft of rainbow light.
And then, he too, vanished.
QUEER-OWNED AND-FRIENDLY
Alternative Aestheticians (Piercing, Tattoos, Cosmetic Tattoos)
Kyle specializes in ornamental and geometric tattooing while prioritizing client comfort at his studio Found Tattoo in Fort Collins, CO
Rene Cordero @instalame_rene
I spend my free time making fan art of my favorite horror movies in hopes people would see my drawings and speak spooky to me.
Queer Author Expo
The Center on Colfax Ashley Shoenbauer aschoenbauer@lgbtqcolorado.org | lgbtqcolorado. org/event/queer-author-expo-2024/ Saturday, October 12, 2024 - 11:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.
The Queer Author Expo features local LGBTQ+ creatives. Come meet & greet the creatives, purchase signed books, and support the community!
