Shotgun! Strange Stories by Shotgun Horror Clips

EDITORIAL

STAFF

January 6th, 2016

here are some changes, as you've notied by David M. Wilson now, to Shotgun Horror Clips. I did a small Editor blog on the subject, free-to-read on our website, but I want to make a little note here as well, for those of you reading and writing this issue forward. Kevin Hoover One of the changes? The by-line: Strange First Reader Stories. My goal is to open our E-Zine up to stories that are strange, instead of excluding stories because they lack the traditional elements of Horror Fiction. I would like this magazine, currently in E-Zine form, to begin to reflect older zine's ... think Wierd Tales and Amazing Stories as a good starting place. Magazines that existed before the cluster-fuck we Want to join the team? like to think of as genre categorization. Contact Us: This all being said, I do plan on sticking to deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com the emotional elements that makes the reader react as they do to a well-crafted horror story. But, this is just as though we were talking about a Science Fiction Thriller; so long as there is fear! Another change, you'll find, is in the layout of Shotgun! itself. The spreads are becoming more compact, and little room is going to waste. This is because I am attempting now to offer hard copies of Shotgun! via various print-on-demand services from several locations across the globe. My goal is provide access to physical copies for the writers and readers who enjoy this magazine. Be patient with this part; it will be a trail-and-error process. Featuring a specific author in each of the issues is something new, as well, and something I would like to keep doing. There's nothing besides bragging rights avaliable right now to those who are selected for this position, however, I do believe that I will be able to coordinate works of art to go with the selected stories, provided the art comes at a reasonable price per commission. This E-Zine will always remain free so long as I have my hand in it, and any sales we make in ads or in hard copies of the magazine will go directly back into the E-Zine and its bills. If we can keep paying for the use of images, and, at the same time, find a way to pay for art commisions, all the better! There's a long road ahead of us, but I'm excited to be winding along it with you fine folks. I think that the talent we've encountered thus far warrents our efforts, and that it shows that the continuation of this effort is worth it; I will go so far to say that it is, to me, valuable. This is the first issue of a new volume (due to the start of a new year), and I think you'll be pleased with what's assembled here for your enjoyment. If you're not pleased, well ... some of these authors might write about a person a lot like you, or worse: some of these authors may already know where you live and what routes you take to get to and from your homes, your schools, your place of work ...

And don't forget. Like their stories, they're strange ...

-David M. Wilson

Volume 2 Issue 1

SHOTGUN!

STRANGE STORIES

FICTION! FEATURED: Mark Hennion

The Last First

Gary Buller

The 2017 Man

Veronica Shultz

Don't Wait for the Psychic

Kevin Hoover

An Instance at the Amber

Colin James

The Lounge Lizards

Sergio Pereira

Love Will Kill You

Alex Olson

Buckle Up!

RIDING SHOTGUN! COVER ARTIST SPOTLIGHT

Victoria Lyons

The Fine Print: Shotgun! Strange Stories ISSN Forthcoming. Vol. 2 No. 1, Whole Number 001. January 6th, 2017. Published Bi-Monthly, unless otherwise stated on our website: www.deadlightsmagazine.com. Shotgun! Strange Stories is a free production of DeadLights Horror Fiction Magazine, trademark pending, ToBoldlyGo LLC. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction or use of editorial or pictorial content in any manner without expressed permission is prohibited, except by the contributing authors and artists in regards to their original or reprinted works, to which said rights belong. To make a submission to this, or any other publication of ours, please visit our website: www.deadlightsmagazine.com, or email us at deadlightsmagazine@gmail.com. Shotgun! Strange Stories is produced in Pullman, WA, United States of America.

FEATURED FICTION

THE LAST FIRST Written by Mark Hennion

love to fuck in strange places, don’t you?” She wrapped her lips around the cigarette and tattooed it black. Tendrils of smoke crept from her nose. “When fate allows.” To my ears, it sounded cool. It wasn’t my usual style—skipping gym class—but there we lay, flat on our backs and just out of sight in the rusty bed of my ’89 Ranger. She passed me the cigarette and I could still feel the warmth of her lips on the filter. I took a final drag before grinding out the cherry. Marilyn Trent, age 18. I knew only because I’d asked. Before that, she seemed elusive, unobtainable, a black hourglass wrapped in fishnets and leather. Silver threaded her ears three times, once through her lip. She approached me in the hallway between classes and made the sudden offer. “Cut gym and burn a few?” Now, she rolled over onto her stomach. Her lower lip jutted as she raked her tongue ring across her teeth. “So, there’s this haunted house…” And there was more after that. But she had me at ‘fuck in strange places.’ *** I’d pictured my virginity up until then as an umbrella on a sunny day—strange, and certainly not useful. Yet, in the six hours between school and waiting for my father to drink himself to sleep, it felt like wearing a winter coat in hell. I was determined to lose it. Shrouded Valley is divided between its forgotten past and failing future: a military town with no war to support. I always read up on wherever dad got transferred before we moved. I stopped reading at ten states, most of them now just photos on dustjackets, the books in a shoebox marking milestones along the way. The training wheels came off at Carson. I shared my first kiss with Jenny White on a sweltering night in Hood. Mom died at Drum. But thinking of Marilyn as I slipped out the screen door, I didn’t mind Shrouded Valley. For dad, it was a penalty, a demotion, oblivion. I’d expected it would be the same for me, until I met her. I drove off post and found her house quickly—it was a house as much as the Taj Mahal is a tomb. Wrapped in the forest, her family’s palace squatted on the hills of the town’s gated community, The Reserve. The Trents were local royalty—she was their disappointment in black. I’d learned this much in the thirty minutes I ditched class with her. I turned off the headlights and idled until a shadow peeled from the immense hillside and opened my passenger door. She sparked a Zippo, lit a joint with it and grinned. Perfect, tiny teeth. “Right on time.” “Rude to keep a lady waiting.” She slid across the bench to the middle and straddled the gear stick. I contemplated placing my hand on her thigh. Cowardice or common sense prevailed. 1

Januray 6th, 2017 “Open your mouth,” she said. Smiling at first, I made an O with my lips. Marilyn hovered an inch away. The smell of jasmine and herbal shampoo overpowered the weed, and the heat of her sitting so close made me sweat. Her blue eyes fixed on mine. Waiting. She leaned forward and stopped an inch shy of my lips and shotgunned a gust of smoke into my mouth. I turned away and coughed gently, exhaling toward my window. “Do you have condoms?” she asked. *** It didn’t add up. Beechwood Parkway was miles of smooth, newly-paved blacktop. The forest line was tamed and pruned into obedience, holding the road’s namesake like anemic giants, far back from modernity. We passed a well-lit mansion with hazy glows coming from twenty or so windows, like beacons against the encroaching night. Then another just like it. “It’s just ahead,” she told me. Maybe she sensed my disbelief. Another scan and the worst my mind could conceive was a bored, lurking cop, the type that would wonder what idiots would drive a rust bucket like the Ranger into an area like this. I crept slower than the posted 25 and watched for hidden driveways. The summer growth masked the private entrances beyond, verdant green and limp in the breezeless night. Marilyn raised her right hand and pointed to one such cluster of trees. “There.” I eased the truck to a stop and leaned across the seat. Just beyond, I spotted a chimney peeking out above the tallest trees in the dark. I followed it to the tree line and tried to distinguish more. She directed me over a small curb and past what resembled mere overgrowth. Kudzu-strangled trees surrounded us, yet the road beneath us was smooth. After a moment, I stopped at a white marble post with black wrought iron gates chained shut. A smile spread across her face. “Told you.” My eyes toured her body. Her lean waist, the swell of her breasts, the lacy red bra beneath her black fishnet top. “Where do we park?” ***

The marble gates had matching bricks laid beneath them, also white. Two leering gargoyles perched atop each side were a grainy white eaten by acid rain that blackened and deepened their recesses. I swept my eyes over the hinges of the black gate. Then the gargoyles. At the old padlock looped through a rusty chain. “What’s up?” She asked. I had almost forgotten she was there. Almost. “Makes no sense,” I told her. “What?” “Multimillion-dollar estate. No cameras, no security devices. This is a manual gate.” I pushed on it once for effect. “Reputation’ll do that.” I straightened. Faced her. “I didn’t want to freak you out too much. Some kids have gone missing here.” The wind picked up, and neither of us spoke. Rain-gorged elm leaves rattled and scraped one another. Last year’s fallen shuffled along the black driveway beyond, uncollected and untended. I surveyed the gate both ways, examining. No FOR SALE signs. “Not scared. Just interested.” I whispered now as well, uncertain of why. “What happened?” “A few years ago somebody I know broke in here. She wanted to see if the stories were true.” “What stories?” Marilyn lit a cigarette. “That the woman who owned it still haunts it. Eleanor Winters.” “Wait—the Eleanor Winters? The author?” “Uh huh. Anyways, shit got weird and—” “Got weird, how?” She smiled. “Rachel—ah shit. Well, too late. Rachel, my friend? She said that the walls started knocking, and they heard laughter. The guy she was with wanted to stay. But she insisted they leave. So they did.” “Not much of a story.” Marilyn killed the cigarette with two hits. She shook her head. “On their way out, a rug tripped the guy at the top of the steps. I mean, it just yanked out from under him. He went headfirst down the steps and broke his leg.” “No shit?” “And then Rachel said that she looked up to the top of the steps and saw her. She saw Eleanor Winters. And then she ran.” “And just left him?” 2

Shotgun! Strange Stories “She called the police. They came out and searched. Saw the rug all bunched up, but…” “He was gone?” Marilyn flicked the cigarette at the ground, and the head exploded into a hundred smoldering fragments. “Some story, right?” Gooseflesh sprang out along my arms. She grabbed my hand and lowered it to her thigh and kept her hand over mine. “That story, every time I tell it…” She slid my hand down inside the hem of her leather pants until my fingertips grazed the soft down. “…gets me so fucking wet.” I swallowed. “Can you pick the lock?” “That’s movie bullshit. But this—” I turned to the truck and grabbed the bolt cutters I’d brought. I snapped the lock at its base and rotated it free and yanked the gate open. “—is how you do it.” *** The paved portion ended a tenth of a mile in. Gravel crunched beneath the tires beyond that. I attempted to keep my eyes on her and the house, equally taken with both. The mansion was four stories, with at least ten French windows covered in drapes either black or bathed in shadow. The driveway ended in a loop around a grimy marble fountain containing a parched mermaid covered in leaves and filth. Marilyn threw her door open and raced between the massive columns holding up the slanted roof. I joined her at the behemoth front doors. “Get those lock cutters.” “Wait,” I told her. She clutched my side with both hands. After hesitating a moment, she slid her hand beneath my t-shirt and ran her nails across my chest. “What?” I kept my eyes on a set of double windows without curtains, positioned just before the awning. The shadow of the tree branches cast by the moonlight flickered across the old bricks, obfuscating everything. For the faintest of moments, my eyes caught movement in the curtains of the double window. “You see something?” She whispered this in my ear. Then licked it. I tried to form a response and groaned as her teeth pinched my 3

neck and drew the skin back. She released me and kissed the wound. “Get me inside. Now.” I surged forward and tested the door handles. I heard her begin to laugh at me, ready to admonish the attempt. But the door opened without so much as a groan. A gust of air came forward as if letting time itself escape. “I can’t see a thing.” Marilyn took my hand and pulled me inside, looking over her shoulder. On the smooth hardwood echoed each step across the large entryway. Silenced artifacts were all covered in white sheets. I picked out the form of what I guessed a grandfather clock, along with several small tables. A carpeted spiral staircase ascended to the second floor. Looming over the turn of the stairwell was a massive painted portrait of a woman I knew to be Eleanor Winters. Like all the photos I’d seen of her, she kept her black bangs trimmed just above her eyes, with the drape-straight length tucked behind her ears. She wore a white fur gown that plunged at the neckline, revealing generous cleavage. Her fingernails were lacquered red and folded over top the knee of a crossed leg. She leaned forward in the painting, challenging the viewer. “She’s beautiful,” I said. Marilyn pushed me against the doorframe and covered my mouth with hers. She pulled at my waist and slammed her body against mine. “Not more beautiful than me?” I fumbled my hands over every part of her, too eager, too overwhelmed. The frenzy of it made her laugh, and as she staggered out of her leather pants, kicked them aside toward the nearest room. A quick glance revealed about thirty chairs and a massive table. She raced up the steps, and I chased after her. Halfway up, I grabbed her leg and caught her. “Not here.” She stood again, whipped in place. “I want to fuck in her bed.” We staggered together, alternating kisses and casting off clothes. She broke free and took off as I fumbled with my pants. I caught a glimpse of her ass just before she disappeared from view at the end of the long hallway. A hard knock echoed somewhere beyond, in the shadows. I stood and held my hands out in front, kept a hand on the walls, and stopped at the first door.

Januray 6th, 2017 “Marilyn?” I heard her muffled laugh from the other side of the door, taken with the moment or the weed, maybe. The ornate crystal door handle was cool to the touch, opening without any protest. I made it two feet and slammed my shoulder into something. “Oww. That what you slammed into, too?” The door shut behind me. Mildew permeated the small space and soured each breath. I waited for her to approach, a short eternity prolonged as my heartbeat accelerated. I could feel its beat in my ears, its pressure thrumming in my neck. “Marilyn?” Her hands grabbed my hips and I jilted. I staggered back, again striking what must’ve been a bookshelf. I reached for her, arms flailing through the darkness, desperate to touch her, yet thoroughly petrified. She found me again and the heat of her naked body against mine already had me concerned I’d come right away. The sealed room gave so little air, making my breath jerk. I was nearly panting and still I heard nothing from her, no sigh, no moan. I surrendered to instinct. The carpets gouged my knees, sweat blinded my eyes. Each time I attempted to kiss her she turned her cheek. She remained still beneath me, her heels pressed against my lower back. I looked at the door, at the thin and only strip of light coming from the hallway. She sensed my end and wriggled free of me, disappearing from view, not even a shadow in the oubliette we shared. “It’s cool, I’m ok,” I whispered. “Just need a second. I can be ready again quick—” Laughter. Throaty and cruel. My spine locked up. My throat went dry. I careened both arms forward and padded the ground. “Marilyn?” “More beautiful than me?” a woman asked. Frigid air seeped in from all sides. The sweat on my body froze and my legs went rubbery. Suddenly I was impossibly cold, a chill so deep it penetrated my skin and wormed its way into the marrow. All sense of balance fled and I crashed to the ground. “Grant, are you in there?” Marilyn’s voice came from the doorway, dampened by the wood. Another laugh issued somewhere in the room, self-satisfied, smug.

“Wha—” The door shot open and struck my left shoulder. Marilyn was as nude as me but entirely dry, hair sleek, not a drop of sweat upon her. “I thought I lost you. Why the hell are you in there? I told you I wanted to fuck in her room!” Quiet. Only four walls with the occasional breeze against the window pane at the end of the hall. I stepped around my puddle of semen and pressed past her, bursting into the hall. We collected our clothes in the dark, half-dressing, half-stepping. Marilyn demand answers, issued promises, threats. Who are you to deny me? Leave me? Everything’s fine. At one point during her litany she touched me, just the briefest poke of her finger. I wrenched the wheel and struck the median. What if any words came out of my screaming I’ll never know—Marilyn was silent after that. The Winters House retreated in the rearview, gone, out of view. But never forgotten.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Hennion is a veteran of the US Army and served during Operation Iraqi Freedom. He was educated at Columbia University and is pursuing an MA in Writing at Coastal Carolina University. Mark writes horror as well as book reviews and cultural criticism. He is a supporting member of the Horror Writer's Association. He lives in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina with his wife Joey and their son Victor. He can be found at www. markhennion.com

THE 2017 MAN Gary Buller Gary Buller is an author from Manchester England where he lives with his long suffering partner Lisa, his daughter Holly and dog Chico. He grew up in the Peak District where the hauntingly beautiful landscapes inspired him to write. He is a huge fan of all things macabre and loves a tale with a twist.

ood afternoon, officers; I am so glad that you came promptly. I can see by the stern looks on your faces that you are keen to be led to Doctor Rothbank's room. I trust that, being in law enforcement, you will have strong stomachs? Of course, you do- you probably see bodies all the time, but I fear that this grim tableau may be too macabre, even by the standards of which you are accustomed. I will be glad to direct you presently, however, before we go, would you please stay in my study awhile and allow me to explain how we came to be here this morning? I would offer you all a cup of tea, but as you might have noticed, our establishment is quite isolated, and there aren't many housekeepers willing to board here. Understandable, I suppose; nevertheless, I hope that you will forgive me? Good—then I shall begin. The man you seek was one of my patients, Doctor Peter Rothbank, who has been in my care since December of 1871. He was a tall, handsome gentleman, though I don't think that you will recognise him when you enter his quarters. I doubt that his own family would be able to identify him, assuming they still have anything to do with the poor soul—the people here don't tend to keep close acquaintances. I remember the time very well, indeed; the broadsheets were awash with news of the harsh winter. Any of you Bobbies who walked a beat last year will be aware of how unforgivably cold it was. Maybe you were one of the unfortunate few to find one of the beggars, frozen to death? I saw one of them once, melded to the cobbles and coated in a sparkling shimmer of frost. I must confess that I found it quite fascinating; it gave me quite a thrill. Speaking strictly as a 5

doctor, you understand? *** My first meeting with Peter Rothbank was as memorable as it was violent. Our guests tend to struggle, but the bastard broke one of my ribs, and scratched me so hard down the left cheek that I still have the scars today, as you can well see. I managed to sedate him with a shot of Laudanum, and secure him within one of our strait jackets. I recall that he lay there, on that icy cold floor, drooling in a puddle of his own blood. The spectacles that he had worn when he entered the room were broken, and they hung askew on his face. The other residents were disturbed by the fracas, it was during the evening gruel run, and their babbles and laughter leaked through the iron bars, like a poisonous gas. If you are exposed to that sort of environment for too long it can rot your mind, it can become toxic. I was glad of the padding on the walls—there's nothing quite as eerie as the tragic vocalisations of the lost, and the damned. I've somehow managed to fortify myself against it, though I often struggle to sleep. I suppose you'll experience this yourself soon enough, when I lead you down there, anyway—I digress. Peter came around from his sedation, and I told him that I planned on visiting him for one hour every day. Although we have many modern, and revolutionary therapies on offer here- including the rotary chair, electrotherapy and hydrotherapy—I personally like to counsel the patient on a daily basis for the first three to six months. It is only when this fails that we move onto more ... advanced ... techniques.

You will have noticed how few staff we keep here. There are not many Londoners willing to supervise murderers, molesters, and self-abusers for just four shillings a week. Those that do come here don't last very long. It's not very nice, watching a man eat his own excreta, as you could well appreciate. I spend most of my working days alone, as doctor, chef and janitor. An hour a day was generous for a new patient, but I found myself spending more and more time in the company of this extraordinary man. Considering some of the unbelievable, and unique cases that I work with daily, you might wonder what was so different about Doctor Peter. Firstly, he was a man of medicine, who abused his position and the Hippocratic Oath. He mistreated, tortured, and even murdered his patients without discrimination, and believed that he had the power of life and death over every soul within his care. He was also a narcissistic psychopath of the highest order, but a gentleman and a scholar. Our talks on medicine could quite easily have been published by the University College of London, but that was not all that set him apart: Peter had an unshakeable belief that he was a time traveller from a futuristic metropolis. He was convinced that he had come from the year 2017. I see the cynical amusement in your eyes, gentlemen, but if you look in my desk draw just there, you will find some recordings of our sessions on wax roll. You are welcome to take those as evidence. Over the course of our sessions, Peter would rant about a dystopian future society, where we are watched in every aspect of our miserable lives by blinking red eyes. He told me that they are monitored day and night by police that can see in the dark. He told me of a magical box containing wires and valves that somehow record these images and then replay them on an electronic projection device. As a doctor that specialises in lunatics, I am trained to listen to and note these delusions, but I am also trained to take them lightly. The patient is not lying, you understand: they believe that they are telling the absolute truth, even when the reality is far from it. We have one woman in room 12 who believes that she is Caligula, having murdered an entire class of children in her careâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and then bathed in a

Januray 6th, 2017 tin bath of their innards. She is convincing in her testament, and yet with Peter there was a ring of truth to his story that shone through like a beacon. *** In one session, he told me that he lived alone in 2017, but the all-seeing police would soon notice that he was missing and come back here, to 1872 in a lightening quick vehicle powered by petroleum, to free him. Of course, I thought it was poppycock. Who wouldn't? I was considering putting him on a course of hydrotherapy to clear his mind, but it was around this time that he started telling me personal details about my life. That changed everything. He knew my age, the school where I studied for my doctorate, my address, and the name of my wife- she died of consumption in1868. He knew intimate details of the times that my father would lock me in the coal shed as punishment, often naked and in the dead of winter. I sat in my chair, mouth agape, as he told me this. I would have said that he had a supernatural, God-given ability if I believed in such nonsense as miracles. It was around this period of our sessions that I confess I lost Peter. I grew angry with him as he told me details about my mother that no-one else could have known. I stood, knocking my chair over, and punched him, hard, in the face. I somehow broke his nose, which never set again quite right. I beat him a few times, after that, too. I'm not proud of my actions. In fact, it hurts to talk about it, but when a man insults the memory of those that were closest to you, what would you do? I demanded he tell me where he got his information, but he just shrugged and repeated, 2017. I was beginning to feel paranoid, and I wondered if he had access to lines of communication that I wasn't aware of. Maybe it was a joint effort with other patients. I strip searched him and cleared his room out, checking every potential nook and I made sure that his door was locked, checking six times a day. I removed all the patients from the rooms adjoining his. Every deluded whisper became 6

Shotgun! Strange Stories a potential slur on my family name. I'm sure any of you men would have done the same. Then, in June of this year, Peter told me something that intrigued and excited me. He told me that not only was he from the future, but now he could prove it. Each new patient is assigned a padlocked strongbox when they are first admitted here, all of which are kept under lock and key in a room next to the infirmary. Each box is made of steel and has a tamper-proof glass window into which we slide the patient's details, as well as a photograph. Discharged patients sometimes struggle to remember their names when they leave- it is an unfortunate side effect of some of the therapies. A photograph is often invaluable in the process of recovering memories; nameface association, you understand. I found the box into which I had placed Doctor Rothbank's personal items and brought them down to his room. With some effort, I might add. He sat on his blanket-less bed, reeking of lice powder and ammonia, and told me to open the box, locate his trousers therein and feel the pockets. I was amazed when my fingers found a small rectangular device along with a number of strangely shaped coins. Small, fat brassy ones, silver heptagonal pennies, and others that were a dull copper colour. All stamped with future dates from 2001 onwards, and all bearing the head of a future monarch; Queen Elizabeth the second. “Who minted these?” He must have heard the unconvincing waver in my voice. These coins

were far too polished in their craftsmanship to be forgeries. “Flip open the case that you hold in your hands.” I couldn't help myself. I almost dropped itmy hands were shaking so. I fumbled the leather case open. Within, a glassy surface twinkled black, with hints of mineral just beneath the surface. It was completely alien, yet beautiful, in its simplicity. “What is it?” I was awestruck. “That,” he replied, “is what we call a mobile telephone.” The small device, not much bigger than the palm of my hand, changed everything. I now understood why he was so convincing, so resolute in his belief that he was from the future. Under Peter's instruction, I pressed a button on the top of the strange machine, and the dark mineral pool lit up white. This time, I did drop it, but thankfully it did not break. Colours that I had never seen before danced before my eyes. It was like witchcraft. A low chuckle rose and fell, then rose and fell again. I wasn't surprised to discover that it was me. “How do you use this ... thing?” My eyes must have conveyed the excitement that was quivering in my chest like a freshly landed arrow. “Let me out of this straight jacket, and I'll show you. I promise, no funny business.” Peter said with the patience of a parent teaching a difficult child Latin. One of the cardinal rules of this establishment is to never remove restraints from a patient when you are alone—I had done this only once

before, and the resulting escape was swift and painful. However, the circumstances here were exceptional. I had to see this futuristic box of tricks in action. Before I knew it, I had already unwound the long, leather straps from the heavy brass buckles, and he was removing the jacket with the considered serenity of a judge removing his robe. During our first encounter, I had been too busy nursing broken ribs and a bleeding face to see what he had been wearing under his doctor's whites. Sweat patches formed underneath the arms of a filthy, button-less shirt that had some kind of fish, or shark, embroidered on the breast. I could not see a single stitch on the garment, and it fitted the contours of his body perfectly. It was clearly manufactured in another time. “Hand me the device.” “Please. No-one needs to get hurt. We're all friends here.” Not taking my eyes off his, I placed the machine in his grimy palm. “This is how we communicate,” he said, pressing one of the coloured squares. It expanded and filled the whole surface with different colours. White numbers appeared, encased within squares. He touched his middle digit to the number 'nine' three times and placed the glass surface to his ear. I could hear a low, rhythmic buzz. I was fascinated, transfixed. *** “Hello, my name is Peter Rothbank. There is a situation red at Brown's Asylum.” It took me a second, but the connotations of what he was saying, and to whom he was saying it to, dawned on me. You must understand why I then proceeded in the manner that I did. I have prevented war, gentlemen. Stopped future police from coming to our time with their strange machines and blinking red eyes. They would have no doubt brought weapons beyond our capabilities to defend, and London would have burned to the ground, once again. Luckily, I had taken to carrying a weapon as a precaution, to protect myself against some of the more dangerous patients that I have under my care. How ironic that the apocalypse was prevented by a simple scalpel blade. I swatted the strange box out of his hand, and it smashed

Januray 6th, 2017 on the dirty tile floor. Cracks were spread across the beautiful glass, like so many spider webs. “You are a sick man,” he said, eyes widening at the sight of the blade. He held out both hands, palms facing me, a placating gesture. “Please, think about what you're doing, Horace, let's not go through this again. I am your doctor, I have a duty of care to you. You might think that it is the late 1800's, but it isn't ...” A tiny spark of anger ignited inside me and rage exploded outwards in a relentless, overbearing heat. I watched, out of my body, as I lunged forward and sliced a second, gaping set of lips across his throat. Immediately, I was baptised in a spray of his warm blood. It was hot and tasted minerally and sweet. As his hands went up to stem the flow, I stabbed the blade deep into his chest and pulled downwards with the full weight of my body. I sliced down to his groin with a rip, and long, steaming entrails spilt outwards onto my hands. Peter was making choking, coughing noises as he fell to his knees, and collapsed flat onto the tiles. I had to silence it, so I smashed his face in with the sole of my boot. As you examine the room, officers, please be aware that I spread his organs out on the floor. It was a purely anatomical exercise, in the sole interest of medicine. You will also find that some of his innards are missing—I ate some of his kidneys, as well as the stomach contents, to see how 2017 tasted. This is the first time anyone, anywhere, has been visited by the future—I had to be scientific and thorough. You will understand how absolutely fascinating this is to me, as a man of medical science. His eyes are in that box there on my desk, I removed them before he died. Please don't take them, if you can help it, I wish to experiment with them when I get the chance. I read somewhere that the retina records the last thing that you see before you expire, like a photograph. I have been sat here, contemplating this for what seems like the longest time—wondering what terrible and marvellous visions Doctor Peter Rothbank had seen in 2017 and how these bloody hands had erased them.

DON'T WAIT FOR THE PSYCHIC Veronica Shultz Veronica Schultz is an up-and-coming writer from northwest Ohio. She graduated from Bowling Green State University with a Bachelor’s of Science in Education, majoring in Dance. Veronica is currently working as a business analyst for a media distribution company that primarily serves public libraries. She's a member of The American Copy Editors Society and Editorial Freelancers Association, and proofreads on a volunteer basis for a local wildlife education and rehabilitation center. It is her belief that partaking in as many life experiences as possible increases authenticity of writing and quality of life—and has been involved in several eccentric hobbies as a result this pursuit. Some of these activities include roller derby, ghost hunting, wildlife photography and education, and she is currently in training as a circus aerialist.

never believed in psychics. Not really. Sure, I read my horoscope from time to time, but only as a fun distraction, to pretend for a few minutes that today might not be just like every other day. I remember, back in college, my friend Joey had a crush on me, and asked a psychic if there was any chance the two of us would end up together. I wasn’t there, but I assume the conversation went something like this: “I’ve been asking this girl out for the past three years, and she keeps saying no. Is there any chance she’ll change her mind?” “Sweetie, you need to move on. It’s written in the stars that she’s not destined for you.” He never gave me a detailed account of the conversation, but since she accurately told him we’d never be together, I simply assumed it was because he mentioned all the times I had already said no. That’s what psychics do. They get you talking, then they either point out the obvious, or tell you what you want to hear. She made a couple accurate observations about my career choices, which was a little weird, but still probably driven by something Joey said. She also told him I’d be married for ten years. We had fun joking with our little group of friends whether that meant I’d be married to one person for ten years or ten people for one year each. 9

Or maybe she meant at least ten. Who knows? It was all great fun at the time, but nothing to change my belief that psychics were the same as reality TV: entertaining, but not real. I had completely forgotten all about Joey’s psychic adventure until my sister threw a party. She’s always having parties; dinner parties, holiday parties, it’s the weekend parties—any excuse she can think of to get a bunch of people together and drinking, usually with some silly gimmick, like an adult bounce house or wetpaint twister. Just a couple weeks ago, she threw an amazing 10-year anniversary party for my husband and me. Tonight the party twist was a psychic. I figured since my sister had paid to have the lady there, I might as well give her a chance. So, I went over to the secluded corner of the living room, which everyone else seemed to be avoiding. I felt kind of bad for her and hoped, once I broke the ice, more people would play along. “So, you’re the psychic.” I tried not to sound judgmental, and hoped if I failed she’d just assume I was drunk and not be too offended. After all, just because I didn’t believe in the stuff was no reason to be mean. She was just doing her job. “Hello Jezebel, I’ve been waiting quite some

time to meet you. I assume you would prefer I call you Lynn.” In my head, I was growling at my sister for giving this lady background information. I wondered if she had done it for every guest, or if she was just messing with me because that’s what sisters do. “My mother is the only one who calls me Jezebel, and she named me after a whore, so I tend to question her judgement.” The psychic smiled but seemed to be looking at something far away. “A queen. Not a whore. History loses so much truth over time. Still, perhaps given the connotation it was not your mother’s best decision.” She shook her head as if to snap herself back from wherever she had been. “But enough of names, they mean so little anyway. I’ve been waiting twelve years to speak with you.” I was taken aback for a moment, but then suppressed a laugh. Obviously this was just a performance to draw me in; setting the mood to make all this seem more believable. I thought about calling her out on it, making her explain the statement, but then I figured it would be best to just play along so as not to ruin the fun for everyone else. “Well, I’m here now—what is it you’ve been waiting to tell me?” “You’re skeptical. That’s good. It keeps you from being fooled most of the time. Not all the time. Not when it is most important. That is why I am here. When your friend came to me all those years ago, your presence was so strong, I could barely see his future; only yours. I did not even need the cards to see all that would happen.” The psychic gestured to the tarot deck spread out between two small crystal spheres, set up beautifully on the dark velvet table cloth. I was sure the cards had not been there before. There had been just one, fake looking crystal ball, which I had been sure was made of glass. She went on. “You never would have believed back then, so there was no way to prevent your present situation. I must settle for a warning to assuage the devastation instead. I am so sorry there was no way to protect you from the trials ahead,”

Januray 6th, 2017 the strange woman said with genuine remorse in her voice. I was uneasy. Chilled. I looked around and although the other party guests were mere feet away from me, they seemed unreachable, and completely unaware of our presence in the room. I turned back to look at her, more carefully this time. I tried to memorize every detail of her face, but all I could see were her deep green eyes. Not the green of eyes I’d seen before. They reminded me of a snake I saw at the zoo once. Beautiful, but only safe when viewed through double-paned glass. I wanted to get up, go back to the party, and avoid whatever was going on here. I felt so alone. So afraid. I just wanted to drink and laugh and pretend none of this was happening. Instead, I sat motionless, my body rebelling against my urge to run. When the psychic spoke again, there was kindness and empathy in her voice, but looking at her still terrified me so I stared down at one of the crystals on the table instead. It seemed to be moving inside, like sunlight shimmering on ocean waves, masking all that hides in the depths below the surface. I trembled and had to gasp to catch my breath. “I’m sorry for creating this fear in you, but it is the only way. Later it will be worse, and I must prepare you. I told your friend you would be married ten years. Your marriage ends tonight. It is important you stay here for one hour. That will keep you safe. You will still be frightened, and there will be terrible hardship, but you will be safe. When you go home, you will be tempted to run. Don’t run. They will see your innocence as long as you don’t run.” In those moments, I believed every word the psychic said. Not only believed, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this woman spoke the truth. I had so many questions, but couldn’t formulate even the simplest coherent thought. I turned my head, expecting to see everyone staring at us. They weren’t. Thankfully, they didn’t seem so far away now. The fear evaporated, my muscles relaxed, and everything felt almost normal again. Even though my heart was still racing, I felt ridiculous for getting so caught up in what was obviously an elaborate story. This woman could win an Academy Award if she took her skills to Hollywood. As I was about to turn back and compliment 10

Shotgun! Strange Stories the psychic on a job well done, the doorbell rang and I heard my sister exclaim, “Yay! The psychic is here!” I turned my gaze back to an empty table. No tarot cards. No crystals. No enigmatic woman with unnaturally green eyes. Just a table with some cheap glittery fabric draped over it and a red plastic cup containing my untouched beer. I grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen, although I have no memory of walking in there. I spent the next hour trying to act normal and avoid conversations. When a friend finally asked why I was acting weird, I lied about a headache and went home. I never looked at a clock, but given everything that has happened since, I have no doubt it was exactly one hour after the warning. My memory of the ride home is just a blur of streetlights and the voice of the psychic, or whatever she was, repeating the words “Don’t run.” It became a mantra. Nothing else in the world mattered. Just don’t run. When I got to my street it was blocked and the neighborhood was filled with red and blue flashing lights. It was as bright as day, yet nearly impossible to see. A dozen or so patrol cars blocked the view of my house, less than half a block from the intersection, and I started to get disoriented as panic set it. I was shaking and could barely breathe while the world around me seemed to melt like the clocks in a Dali painting. I was snapped back to reality by a loud, stern voice saying, “Miss, you can’t get through here. You’ll have to turn around.” The tone of the officer’s voice scared me. Something was wrong. Really wrong. This wasn’t just a traffic accident or gas leak, and his attitude indicated there was no way he was going to give any hint of what was happening. I wanted to do what he said. I wanted to turn around and speed away, but the voice, which by now had morphed into an unrecognizable blend of the psychic, myself, and something I couldn’t quite place, kept repeating “Don’t Run.” “But I live here. I have to get home.” I quickly got out my license and held it out the window. For a second, it looked like he was just going to ignore me, to turn around and walk back over to the perimeter which, now that my eyes were adjusting to the scene around me, I realized was practically surrounding my house. He stopped to look at my license, and the shock 11

on his face destroyed any lingering hope I had that maybe everything would be okay. “Step out of the car and come with me.” He barked the order, his hand resting on his holster, as if he was expecting me to attack. I moved slowly, or at least I think I did. It’s all kind of a blur. I don’t remember if he told me to keep my hands where he could see them, but I did anyway. It was clear he believed I was a threat, and although I had no idea why, I wasn’t going to risk doing anything that would set him off. I felt the urge to run again, but the voice in my head kept insisting I stay there, kept telling me not to run. It kept me from panicking just enough to allow the officer to guide me up to my own driveway, his hand never moving from his gun, ready to draw and fire at any moment. All the cars and lights and more police officers than have ever been in my town at one time should have prepared me for a horrendous sight. Obviously, all this would not be happening unless something dreadful had taken place. Nothing could have prepared me. Nothing. There was so much blood. Blood and pieces of—something. I couldn’t tell at first what they were. I had never seen dismembered body parts in real life, and it was nothing like the movies. I heard a scream, but when I looked around to see where it was coming from, I realized it was me. I sank to the ground, nauseated and overwhelmed. After that, before everything went black, there was a barrage of voices: “…has an alibi…party…” “husband…wanted for murder in…” “false identity…did she know?” “…previous wife…just like this…” “I think she’s in shock.” “…been here any earlier…” “…accomplice?” “No. She would have run.”

AN INSTANCE AT THE AMBER Kevin Hoover Kevin first realized how powerful words can be when, back in the 2nd grade, he was able to skip a night’s worth of homework in exchange for writing an essay on the environment. In the 30 years since, he’s written a fitness guide that was successfully funded via Kickstarter, created content for businesses both big and small, and dabbled in the world of fiction. If you’d like to say hi or pick his brain, shoot him an email at thewritekevin@gmail.com.

ust an instance at the amber. A fleeting one at that. It’s all about a simple choice, really. One that often is made without being given the consideration and deliberation that a decision of such magnitude warrants. A decision that, if taken lightly, could carry with it ramifications of a life-changing, or perhaps more apropos, life-ending, nature. A simple choice that can be resolved with a simple answer to a simple question. Should I stay, or should I go? Just an instance at the amber. Lasting less than a second in length. Millions of motorists are confronted with that same dilemma every single minute of every single day, just as Lucy finds herself now. Nestled firmly, as it always has been, in between the crimson caution of, “Stop and go no further!” and the emerald beacon of ,“Your time has come. Great destinations await”, lies the essence of amber, the incandescent yellow hues calling attention to the aforementioned decision. For some, it’s the last choice they’ll ever make. Their devil-may-care attitude wrests the steering wheel from their grasp and offers no warning or apology to others in the vicinity. All in the name of shaving a few moments off of a morning commute to work or an afternoon respite away from such Monday to Friday drudgery. Others choose to play it safe and opt to abide by the laws established by those entrusted with setting forth such doctrines of decency.

Since the essence of the amber does inherently mean to “proceed with caution,” many choose to do just that. Live another day they will, as the promise of an expedited arrival to their intended destination just isn’t worth the perilous possibility of harm to either life or limb. In the too-oft tested battle of flesh vs. steel, the unyielding force created by, say, an errant semitruck matched against the soft-tissue and bone matter comprising the human body, the semitruck almost always wins. And even in the case that such an occurrence never comes to fruition, the accompanying ticket for blowing a red light and the associated fines usually aren’t worth the hassle. So it stands that on a chilly January night, at half past eight, Lucy finds herself sharing the same moment that others around the world are ensconced in at that very instance. Staring at a traffic light facing a decision that only has two possible choices: “Should I stay, or should I go?” *** “Should I stay?” she ponders. Slam the brakes on her Honda and wait for her turn, right after everyone else, in a situation she’s not unfamiliar with. Sit patiently as she always has, with her hands in lap and her lips firmly sealed. The Principles of Economics book that’s way too big and cost way too much forcefully thrust into the back of her seat, like a hard reminder of the pledge she made to herself to finally commit to changing her life. That’s why she enrolled at the community college to begin with, the school that “he” said would 12

Shotgun! Strange Stories be a waste of time and money. The “he” being named “John.” “He” being the one she fell in love with many years ago. Also, the same “he” that made her feel important, feel special, beautiful. But this was also the same “he” that monopolized her funds due to being unable to hold a job himself, explaining it away with a litany of excuses. “The money wasn’t right” or “the hours weren’t enough” or countless bosses that just “had their head up their ass.” John always had a reason to explain away his lack of employment. But excuses are worthless and empty and carry no real value, monetary or otherwise. So bend to his will she would in the hopes of prolonging his admiration for her just a little longer. Even if that meant working dead-end jobs, perhaps even two at a time, and putting her dreams on hold. There would surely be time later, she’d tell herself. “Or Should I Go?” Pedal to the metal and safety be damned were not concepts Lucy had ever subscribed to. 100 miles an hour down two lanes of blacktop towards … where? Where was she in such a hurry to be? Maybe it wasn’t to somewhere. Perhaps it was from somewhere, something. Someone. Away from the Approval Seals, those that bark their wants and desires for Lucy’s life. The ones that she long sought justification from. The Mother and Father that always wanted the best for their little girl and worked tirelessly to provide with all the finest things, just so as long as she was willing to follow a course through life that they saw fit for her. The Approval Seals whose loud, never-ending barks of demands and overbearing intentions drove her away, right down a path that led up to John’s front door. Well, not exactly his, as he never had his own place and was always relegated to sleeping on the couch of whichever friend wasn’t tired of his shit this week. Just an instance at the amber. One that often goes unremembered. But this one, much like all the others before it and the ones that are surely remaining, is not something Lucy will forget, not even if she lived for a hundred more years. The events that unfolded earlier in the day would see to that. For while others can enjoy the liberty to making decisions of whether to go or not, that luxury 13

is no longer hers to behold. Her choices were made hours earlier, and now there’s no turning back from them. The thud that resonated from the trunk of her car serves as reminder to her that the only option left on the table is to go… Go. Far away and fast as can be. At the speed of light, or faster, even, there should be a quantifiable measurement of such movement. Throw caution to the wind and all that jazz. Go away from the Approval Seals, the ones that barked their displeasure at her life’s choices, like her decision to incessantly return to a man that was uncaring, unsupportive, mean … … violent. A man who held no regard for her own well-being, her dreams, her desires. Little did it matter to him that she loved and cared for him. And little did it matter that she was with child. His child. One that she thought would bring them closer together, and force him to finally realize just how much he needed her just as she needed him. He didn’t realize it, however, and he never would. Paterfamilias he was not, and had no intention of becoming. Lucy was just a lark for him. A wilted rose whose petals dried up and blew away long ago. She was money when he needed it, a romp in the sack at the end of another night of drinking with his buddies at the bar when all the other girls would turn him down. She never turned him down. She never said no. And when she needed him the most, she had hoped that he would feel the same way. When what she needed was a Yes, all he would offer was a No. So: Go. She’ll go, too, fast and far, continuing a game of catch-me-if-you-can that began a mere hour ago. A game that began when she separated John’s head from his shoulders with a razor-sharp ginsu. It was the only viable option she had at the moment, as nothing else seemed to work. The tears, the pleading, the bruises, the welts, he turned a blind eye to it all. His body proved to be much too heavy for Lucy to move by herself, and she had no intention of seeking out help. Besides, due to her motherly condition, it would have been strongly advised against anyway. The head, however, that belonged to her, a reminder that

her days of seeking approval from the seals had come to an end. She was certain that by now John’s roommate had discovered the body and the ensuing mess. A master butcher she was not and as a lifelong vegetarian, she wouldn’t even know how to properly cut a steak, let alone participate in the act of decapitation. The head she wrapped in a Hefty sack and tossed in the trunk. Lucy attempted to scrub her hands clean with soap and water, but bits of flesh and blood had become trapped beneath her nails and had dried to a dark and crusty brown appearance. Her heart raced much the same as it had been doing all evening. She was aware of the sirens wailing in the distance and could see the all-too-familiar glow of blue and red lights illuminating the surrounding cloak of darkness brought about by nightfall. Surely Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t look too fondly on this matter, but she’d learned a long time ago to stop worrying about what they thought. Maybe they’d step in and take care of the baby as she didn’t believe that penitentiary’s came standard with nurseries, but more likely was the case that the baby would become a ward of the state, as her parents would disavow her, and the child would be given to a family that would shower her with love and let her blaze her own trail through life. Just an instance in the amber: One of dread and despair.

THE LOUNGE LIZARDS

Colin James We were sitting in the back and initially nothing happened other than the usual head-bobbing. A murmur of silence a few empty trays of crackers cheese, I believe there was one Komodo Dragon apparently larger than life. Our duties were not outlined clearly, a list of could-benumbs long enough to include every variant twice or words to live modestly by like don't be a liability to your own space, take it up then wander off. The excluded don't always get to leave early their attention spans just become shorter. I had folded my coat neatly not knowing where learned, probably a coat folding seminar. Older over achievers stood by the door like the ultimate Protestants. Could have been a time killing seminar. The wallpaper was quite astonishing. Tongues seemed to flick through the air then the food emanated butted in, appeared, flesh rare.

Colin James has a chapbook of poems, Dreams Of The Really Annoying, out from Writers Knights Press. He has currently returned to school after a long hiatus.

LOVE WILL KILL YOU Sergio Pereira Sergio Pereira is a speculative fiction writer from Johannesburg, South Africa. He has a strong interest in comic books, film, music and comedy. When he's not reading or writing, he enjoys a game of Pro Evolution Soccer, watching football, catching up on films, and playing with his dog. His short stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, such as Devolution Z, Death Throes, Centum Press's 100 Voices, and Tales from the Lake: Vol. 3 from Crystal Lake Publishing.

he light clawed away at the darkness, but it was too late. "Romance will kill you." Lucy sprang out of her slumber. Shaking her head, walking into the bathroom, she silently prayed the ringing voice wouldn't echo much longer than it normally did. She splashed water on her face. "It's not real," she said to herself for the umpteenth time. "He's not coming back." Regardless of the positive affirmation, the throbbing thump-thump in her throat begged otherwise. Some mornings, she’d brush her teeth until she tasted blood, just to wash away the sickening memory of his breath on her lips. Digging in a bag of new clothes, Lucy picked out a long sweater. She yearned for nothing more than to throw on a spaghetti top, but this was a small price to pay. Some weren’t as lucky as she was. Lucy downed two pills for the numbness and left the house. Dr. Tompkins told her a daily walk would be good for her mind, body, and soul. Since she’d been paying him for the past six months, she decided to take his advice. Despite what the self-help books said, the world changed—even deteriorated. The sun lost its sheen, the leaves withered, grime infested the freshly painted walls, and the friendly faces were all burdened with permanent scowls. Lucy tried to tell herself that it was only in her head—only a result of her “issues”—but what if the world had always been a ball of shit and she’d chosen to ignore it? Her phone rang. “Hello?” 15

The voice on the other end: “Lucille Danver?” “Yes. Who’s this?” “Ms. Danver, this is Sergeant Francis.” Then he said the one piece of news every person dreads to hear over the phone, “There’s been an incident at your home.” Lucy’s heart pounded against her ribcage. “But I just left … about five minutes ago.” “If you’re close by, I can get one of our patrol cars to pick you up, ma’am.” “No. I’m on my way back right now.” She hit the red button on the screen and sprinted back. Her mind raced to conclusions. What incident? Did someone break in? The answer arrived in the form of smoke signals. Lucy covered her mouth with her sweater sleeve and ran over to the nearest policeman on the street, while the fire brigade fought to extinguish the burgeoning flames and smoke. She watched as a squad car pulled up, an officer stepping out from within it. “Sergeant Francis?” “Yes,” the officer said. “Ms. Danver?” Lucy nodded. “What happened here?” “I’m not sure, ma’am. One of our patrols saw the smoke and called it in. We got your details from your neighbor over there.” Lucy’s neighbor Maggie rushed over to hug her. “Oh, my God. I’m so happy you weren’t inside there,” she said. “I’m okay, Maggie, and thank you.” For ten long minutes, the firefighters pushed back against the destruction. Finally, the flames subsided as the smoke screen lifted. The house had seen

better days, but at least it was still standing. A fireman called Sergeant Francis over and handed him something. They locked themselves in deep, serious conversation, before the policeman nodded and made his way back to Lucy. “Ma’am, I have some bad news,” his voice broke. Lucy’s eyebrow rose. “What?” “Your partner was inside when this terrible incident happened.” A harrowing chill shot down Lucy’s spine, paralyzing her with terror. “I live alone, sergeant.” “Oh,” Sergeant Francis rubbed his chin, “so you don’t know who this person is?” He

Januray 6th, 2017 handed Lucy the driver’s license in his hand. As Lucy took the license, she overheard a conversation as two firemen walked past her to the truck. “Candles all over the place… Rose petals scattered over the bed… Yeah, stuck under the bed and burnt alive… Romance will kill you, Phil.” She dropped the license. And she ran, never looking back.

BUCKLE UP! Alex Olson Alex Olson, is from Port Huron, Michigan, and is currently studying at Southern New Hampshire University. IHe's had one story published in Inner Sins Webmagazine and another published by Witch Works Pulp Horror.

y relationship is entirely parasitic in nature. He is a leech, a scum, a bespeckled fool who whispers greeting card sayings and condemns me to a life of mediocrity. He has me trapped, trapped by expectations, trapped by the irrational fear of the unknown. The outsider will say: “Just leave him.” As if! I wish it were only that simple. His friends are my friends, I’m in a book club with his mother, I work in the same store as his father. My entire adult life is built around him. I am a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The meat-hooks are in, pierced through flesh on my shoulder, my arms, my legs, my heart. And at the heart of this parasitism? A simple act done by couples all over the world, over and over again. It is symbolic, it is essential to a healthy, loving relationship. Cuddling. It would be so much simpler if Joey just wanted to fuck and then no longer touch me. No! Of course not; how could sweater vest wearing, wine tasting, sport hating Joey ever have such a masculine notion? With Joey it’s always bed and breakfasts, specialty cheeses, artistic films, fucking hybrid cars. He acts as though we’re still in the first month of our relationship, and he still has to impress me with how sophisticated and unlike other men he is. But it’s not! We’ve been together six years! Around year four I realized how much his mannerisms agitated me. I left our overpriced apartment (Joey liked the view, he liked the sunset) and gotten into my car. I was store director of a local grocery store, so my day started early. I set my coffee cup in its holder, stuck the key into the ignition, and started the car. In the process, in the briefest of 17

glances down, I noticed the yellow sticker he’d stuck on the dashboard. It was shaped like a stop sign, and in black block letters it said: “Buckle up!” Like the final whip crack that makes a tiger attack its master, the dawning comprehension hit me with such a force I gasped, accidentally turning the key again and stalling the car. I hated my boyfriend. Not a: “Oh I’m just a different person than I was back then,” or “We’re going down different paths in life.” No, this was more like: “I hate this motherfucker and everything he is.” I looked in the rearview mirror, and stared at the character who gazed back. It was me, but something was different. Underneath the carefully done up blonde hair and modest makeup was a person who wanted to take a bat and bash her boyfriend’s head in. But like millions of other people, I buried my feelings and went to work. For two more years. *** Joey does not work. Not in the sense that he gets up in the morning and puts on different clothes and you know, works. Oh no, he’s much too dignified for that. Joey is a movie critic, very well respected in artistic circles. He also writes articles for a few magazines, a handful of websites, and contributes to the local paper. I once asked: “Why can’t you just enjoy a movie without analyzing it?” He’d looked at me, smiling, a piece of spinach still in his teeth from dinner, and uttered a derisive laugh. “Because, Wendy, that’s what everyone else does. If everyone just enjoyed media, it would never advance. We’d still think of gladiator battles as high entertainment. I’m

not a sheep, I will not just like things because everyone else does.” We were watching Batman. He was telling me about all the implausibilities. Batman couldn’t survive a fall like that, how come nobody noticed this, and how was it possible that Bruce Wayne hadn’t been discovered yet? I bring home more money than he does, actually. He might make more than I one month, but then for a few months he might not make more than a few hundred dollars. This in itself isn’t a problem, but when he takes a sneering tone about my job, I want to strangle him one of his scarves. Jesus Christ, even the fact that my boyfriend owns scarves (with an “S”! Multiple scarves!)— makes me want to puke. To him, my job isn’t dignified. It didn’t take much skill, I just worked at the store long enough. Never mind the fact that I started as a cashier when I was eighteen, and I’ve moved up exponentially since then. I’m getting off track. My rage is a tangled ball, like the cords behind the TV, the audio and stereo cables intertwined with the Blu-Ray player’s wires, mixed with extenders and HDMI cords. My anger is infused with frustration, wrapped in agitation, knotted by disgust. This ball writhing strings sits in my stomach, and the only way to receive any relief is to go into the bathroom and retch. Stick a French manicured finger down my throat and gag, trying to get to the revulsion to expel itself. Does Joey notice? What do you think? Cuddling. Snuggling. Positively, the most annoying thing Joey does to me. There are others, but those normally only last a few minutes so it’s bearable. Often when I get home from work, my feet ache from walking about a store all day, my head hurts from the constant noise. So all I want to do is lay down on the couch and fall asleep watching TV. Joey will hear me come home and come out to the living room. He’ll stand over me, looking down and smiling. Sometimes, I close my eyes and pray that he’ll go back to the bedroom, back to his computer. Sometimes, I pray that he’ll go out and cheat on me, just so that he’d be gone for a few hours.

Januray 6th, 2017 But sweet, loving Joey would never do this. He grins his patronizing smile, and lays down with me on the couch, whispering: “There, there, that’s better, huh?” as he wraps his arms around me. Like he’s doing me a fucking service. Sometimes, all the time, he smells quite bad. I don’t know why, I don’t know if he secretes an odor as part of a defense mechanism, but he smells rancid. His breath reeks of stale Doritos and dogshit. It is worsened by the fact that he breathes right in my face, or will pull me close and whisper in my ear, his hot breath blasting my cheeks and making my skin crawl. His breath is avoidable. I can turn and face the TV, downwind from his mouth. His body odor, however, is another challenge. There are people at work, the stockers, who sometimes smell bad. They are on the move constantly, hauling boxes, moving about the store. They work hard, and sweat hard. A metallic, iron-like odor hangs over them, mingled sweat and old farts. Old men smell this way, teenage boys after football practice smell this way. Joey smells this way. And when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his parasitic embrace, I can’t help but feel that he is evil, that he is a creature sent to destroy me with cuddling and romantic comedies. In the first days of dating, we would lay on his futon in his little one bedroom apartment, and watch movies too. In those days, after a few minutes, the presence of my body pressed against his would cause him to become erect. He would begin groping me, and we would have sex. I think he smelled better in those days. This happens rarely now. Most times he remains flaccid and rubbery, and I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. When we do have sex, he takes the position and struggles against me for a few minutes, finally exhaling his stinky breath all over my face. I started holding my breath for the entirety of the performance; when I feel him finish, I take in a huge gasping breath that he assumes to be an orgasm. Because what else could it be? It would never enter the great Joey’s head that I was not satisfied. Not satisfied. The phrase echoes in my head, echoes down 18

Shotgun! Strange Stories into my heart and drills into my bones. I should just say something, right? I mean, do it nicely. When we’re on the couch, I should just say: “Honey, you need a mint.” Or do it sexy, like, “Let’s take a shower together, huh?” Communication is key to a strong relationship, so maybe I should be more direct. “You fucking disgust me,” would be theclearest line. I could say these things, but there would be no long term change. Joey is a master of passive-aggressive warfare. He would say: “Oh okay,” He’d take a bath, use mouthwash, and act like a wounded dog for the rest of the week. And he’d make stupid jokes, little sarcastic jabs that make me seem like the villain. “I’m going to the store!” “Okay, Joey.” “I’d kiss you, but my breath revolts you, so goodbye.” See? That is exactly how it would play out. And then, to top it off, the following month he would conveniently not make as much, putting more stress on me for the bills when he could have easily written another review. He’d pout like a child until I apologized, until I recanted the truth and he could return to his pretentious fantasy where he is King Man. I shouldn’t be avoiding these confrontations, but really it’s more hassle than it’s worth. I could break up with him, but… Being single is a lot of work. I’d really rather not go through the whole routine of finding another potential life mate. I had assumed that part was out of the way. Two years ago the plan was to marry Joey and skip on through life. Now, I don’t know. *** I had a dream. I was in my house, but low, low to the floor. I skimmed the carpet on my belly, my tongue flickering out, sensing the environment. My stomach felt strong and lithe. I was smooth, slick: full of power. The floor slid smoothly under me, and looking down it became a blur, like looking at the road underneath the pedals when riding a bike. I slithered over the couch, down the hall, head bobbing side to side. I snaked my way into our bedroom, and my nose picked up a familiar, acrid scent. Joey. Up onto the bedspread, I glided over the soft 19

blue sheets. Next to Joey’s head, tongue flicking in and out, in and out. My mouth opened, and I could see glittering fangs. I plunged down into his neck, and felt my mouth pulse, pumping venom into his veins. I felt the venom. It was like ice water, freezing his blood flow, freezing his heart. I woke up, shivering. *** Get home from work. Throw keys on table. Six pack of beer in hand, take one, put rest in fridge. Sit down on couch, click on TV. Exhausted. It was inventory day, and second shift is having a minor rebellion, something about they want shorter hours. Something is wrong with TV. Cable isn’t clicking on like it should. I get up, setting the remote on the coffee table. That’s when I notice the note. Written in girly, cursive writing, it says: “Turn to channel 3, my love. -Joey” Dreading what comes next, I turned to channel three. Somehow Joey got the TV to display a digital wedding invitation. “Wendy and Joey Graves invite you to witness a joining of two loving souls.” The invitation was animated, and it opened, revealing more text: “Will you marry me?” Then Joey walks in the room, holding a ring and wearing a suit. *** In the car, flying down the highway. Sobbing, mascara running down my cheeks. I’ve lost my voice, screaming in the car. My palms are raw and red, pounding the steering wheel. I said yes. Why did I say yes? I said yes, we ate dinner. We had perfunctory sex, and he fell asleep. I said yes. There are warring factions in my head. One of them sounds oddly like my mother. It’s protesting that Joey is a sweet man, and that he will make a good husband and if I just go talk to him, I can work through all of my issues. The other sounds like my college roommate, Kate. A vehement feminist, she would often rant about not needing men, and that women are not chained to the idea of getting married and raising a family. This faction is saying that I should just leave him completely, move out,

Januray 6th, 2017 start fresh. It’s saying that I have a more viable career than he does, that it is perfectly acceptable, hell, admirable to leave the bastard. There is a third, and it is me. Wendy, in a quiet voice, is telling me to go back. That it was my life, and I was not to be scared off by Joey, or by anyone or anything. I was not going to leave town. I was going to go home and tell Joey that I did not want to marry him. That I wanted him out of the apartment and out of my life; not out of some feminist plight but out of my plight. My desire to be free from cuddling, from bad breath, from horrible sex and fucking movie critiques. I would rip down his fucking art deco paintings and wipe my ass with them if I wanted to. It was my apartment, I paid for it. I was not leaving. The more I listened to Wendy the more I agreed, and the louder she got. I turned the car around, and went back. ***

He wouldn’t leave. I… I’m covered in blood. I got home. Told him I didn’t want to marry him. Said my practiced liberation speech. He said no. That I had to marry him. I had a wine glass in my hand. I plunged the glass into his neck. It shattered, shards piercing his flesh. Blood. A lot. Same color as the wine. His body is in the trunk. Blood in my hair. Looking in the rearview mirror. Wendy is smiling. Buckle up!

Cover Artist

SPOTLIGHT VICTORIA LYONS really great complex narrative behind all the screaming, but the next moment I'm having to leave the room trying to convince myself people aren't actually getting hurt in real life and that I shouldn't feel bad for them. With that said, my favorite horror movies and books that I haven't actually gotten all the way through and probably am not a good judge of are White Is for Witching, Kairo, and End of The Line. SS: What one of the strangest stories you've ever read OR what is one of the strangest pieces of art you've ever encountered? VL: The strangest art I've seen would by far be Christian Rex van Minnen's still life paintings. The man has mastered not only oil painting but depicting the uncanny as well. And even though I love his work and could only wish I could paint like that, starring at it is so unsettling that SS: What got you into horror art and/or what it's not something I'd like to stare at for long. inspires your darker drawing(s)? VL: I never intended to lean towards darker images initially, but learning to use the largest range of shadows and wanting to create more Contact Victoria Lyons! expressive images naturally moved my style in that direction. But even now, for me it's Email: not about creating horror images specifically. happyseastarstudio@gmail.com Rather, I strive to create images depicting the Website: raw intensity of human emotion whether that https://happyseastarstudiocreations. be fear, lust, rage, amazement, grief, etc. wordpress.com STRANGE STORIES: What got you into art, how long have you been an artist, and what forms do you use and love the most? VICTORIA LYONS: I first started painting when I was 8 and my grandmother had mailed me an acrylic paint set for Christmas that year. My love for that eventually grew into working with other forms of physical painting and then digital painting several years later. As for what form of art I love the most, it really is hard to decide. Working as an artist professionally for the last year has opened me to even more mediums than before. But, I now find myself dabbling in not only painting, but metal work, glass blowing, sculpture, ceramics, calligraphy, and costuming, all of which have their own appeal at the right times.

SS: What are your favorite horror authors/ movies? VL: Ironically, the horror books or movies that I like are the ones I've never been able to watch/read all the way through, so it'd be almost silly for me to pick a favorite. One moment I'm watching a horror movie thinking, What great lighting, look at how well done their special effects makeup is, there's some 21

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