Spill Yr Guts Horror Zine | #004 | Winter 2019

Spill Yr

GUTS horror zine Issue 4 Winter 2019

Spill Yr

GUTS horror zine Issue 4 Winter 2019

EDITOR’S NOTE Welcome, reader, to a new issue of Spill Yr Guts!

I have to give a huge thank you to the universe and to contributors; submissions for the zine seem to have blown up in the past six months, and that parasite lingering in the back of my mind before I pushed through putting together the last issue has completely shrivilled. My doubts about keeping this zine going are, for now, the least of my concerns, and I’m proud to be able to present this new issue.

Along with submissions, general feedback has been so lovely and heartwarming, and I can’t tell you how much your messages and enthusiasm make me so confident in what we’re doing here.

Please, if you like what you read (or, hell, if you don’t) and like what we do here at Spill Yr Guts, send along some work of your own for our consideration.

It’s a new year full of new horrors; let’s hope they’ll remain in the realm of fiction. (Yeah, sure.)

Sonya Cheney Found, Editor-in-Chief

Watch It Grow

By Gabbie Frulla

I recline back in my chair and open the book to Chapter seven. My eyes strain to absorb every word in the candlelight.

If my wife knows I’m reading this book again she’ll take it away, and that can’t happen. My mouth slowly opens and small droplets of drool slip out. My mind is submerging itself within a dark place and that dark place holds all the answers.

I see myself within the watery screen of my subconscious tending to an enormous plant. I dig into the potted dirt mushing it in my hands as giant palmed leaves drip blood into my mouth.

I rub the dirt into my bare chest as tiny green leaves sprout out from under my skin. I can hear the low growling of the plant as it feasts upon the top of my head, and I begin gnawing on my finger tips.

“Owen?” I can hear Elaine’s voice distant but clear.

I move the book and stare at her blankly.

“What the hell was that?” She asks.

“What was what?”

“Your eyes were just rolling back and your mouth was moving up and down like you were eating something,” she says with a look of disgust on her face.

I stay silent.

“Didn’t I tell you to get rid of that book?”

“I, uh, I was just about to.”

“And do something with that plant, Owen. Jesus, it’s about to take over your office.”

I watch Elaine leave and wait until I hear her footsteps go up the stairs and into our room. I carefully open my bottom drawer and take out the container of ladybugs. The top pops off and the ladybugs come sprinkling out onto the dirt. With a grin on my face I watch as the dirt within the pot bubbles and the tiny creatures sink into it like quicksand. The weeping limbs on my plant grow and push the picture of wife and her nephew on our wedding day off of the ledge.

Before I retreat to bed I place three ice cubs into the

pot and wait for the sweet scent of candy to lift off of the waxy leaves. The warm scent of fresh cotton candy wafts through the air and my mouth salivates. I creep up to my bedroom door hoping Elaine is sleeping but she’s sitting up waiting for me. I roll my eyes then put on a smile.

“You need to get rid of that plant,” she says.

A rage bubbles up in my guts.

“Why the plant?” I ask.

“Ever since that thing showed up on our doorstep it’s all you care about!” She says.

“Jesus, Elaine. Can’t you be happy with the fact that I’m taking care of something?” I ask. “I tell you I’m not ready for a baby and you throw a fit. Now I’m tending to a plant, that’s growing incredibly if you ask me, and you throw another fit!

Can’t you ever be happy?”

“I’d be happy if you weren’t so obsessed with the plant and that damn book you found in the attic. That’s when I’ll be happy,” she says turning on her side.

The lights flick off and the dull pulse of infomercials light up the room as I slip into an unconscious state.

I pass through the liquid curtain of my dreams and find myself walking through a black hallway. My footsteps echo and I am being followed by droplets of blood dripping from the limitless ceiling. I stop, and the blood collects in a puddle at my feet. I bend down to touch it and hear a low grunt almost like a pig eating from its trough. As I walk deeper into this black abyss my ankles become entangled by a thick ivory and I fall backwards into a layer of black sewage. Gasping for air I try desperately to claw my way out of the muck that is suffocating me.

When I awake, Elaine is gone and the house is still. I frantically jump up in anticipation of what reward I will be receiving today. I tie my bathrobe around me and run down the stairs.

My great-grandfather’s pocket watch is sitting atop the glass desk. I approach it and watch its intricate golden body glisten under the morning light. How incredible it is to see it

after I was almost certain I’d never see it again.

“Thank you,” I say repeatedly like a hymn.

It wraps an arm around my wrist and pulls tight. I am its prisoner. Afraid that my obsession will unravel, I decide to indulge in some necessary work in order to appear as normal as ever. This incessant drumming at the back of my mind is a collection of my thoughts gathering in a manic cluster. Blood rushes to my face as I strain to contain a scream that so anxiously wants to erupt from my lips. It’s as if I am incapable of doing anything other than tending to the needs of my plant. My fingers stiffen and strain to type out the rest of my estimates while the lower half of my body attempts to swing around to face my plant.

I cannot resist.

I swirl around in my chair and buckle to my knees. An arm slithers down the pot and into my hand. I kiss the waxy arm in appreciation and it wraps around my neck like a leash. I am in a submissive position as the dominant power pulls me closer on my knees and inserts the tip of its arm into my mouth. My eyes flutter and a euphoria washes through me like the warm waves of a tropical sea.

A chattering releases me from my lustful state. A squirrel perches along the limb of a tree just outside my window. The arm retracts back into the pot and I sorrowfully feel its pressure release from my throat. It glides up the wall and out of the window. The squirrel’s small head turns rapidly from side to side as its beady little eyes examines its nut. The limb extends itself outside and quickly wraps around the squirrel, strangling it.

Fuzzy, gray hairs float around in the air as my plant drags the squirrel into the pot, covers it with soil and a slight squeal escapes its furry lips.

The ground lightly shakes and the lights dim while I sit on the floor in awe. The warmed scent of sugar permeates through the room and my plant begins to rise in height. The

limbs sprawl out onto the floor and small buds begin to form.

Some blossom with a pop of fuchsia while others lay plump and green. I back away to get a better view of my flourishing plant when I spot a stack of hundreds sitting neatly on my desk.

“One, two, three, four, five, six,” I say as I count the bills in my hands.

My eyes water as I realize that I hold the power to my plant’s magic. I’d read about the furious power that grows within the gardener should they treat the plant appropriately. I grab the book from my desk and flip through the pages. I now realize I am on the right path of receiving the ultimate gift from my plant.

The gardener who tends to this plant will receive their deepest desires should they take proper care of it.

The stack of money in my hands feels good, feels right and I now possess the desire for more. It bolts through my veins with a furious pounding and I must satisfy this yearning.

It takes me twenty minutes to drive to the pet shop and back. In my arms I hold a golden retriever puppy. I tie its leash to the leg of my desk and step back. The puppy’s tongue lulls in and out of its mouth as it looks around my office with a smile on its face.

Two arms unravel like ancient scrolls and poke at the puppy’s fur. The plant hisses and wraps both limbs around his neck, breaking it, and forces it into the pot where it dissolves into the dirt. A roar erupts, the floorboards shake and the lightbulbs shatter while my plant’s limbs stretch towards me. They make it half way across the room unleashing a candy scented jungle within my small office. My floor is now covered in vibrant green limbs. All of the buds explode into an array of deep and light pinks and purples. The blossoms are like small church bells ringing with thin stems as they feel their way around the mahogany floor.

Translucent ripples appear in the glass surface of my desk and I watch stacks of money rise up from within them. Eight rows of hundreds now cover most of the space and I scramble to collect them. An evil laugh unleashes from my throat as I shove the money into a bag and bring it upstairs to the safe.

I’d carefully studied my plant for a few days monitoring its every move while Elaine looked on in disbelief. My black hair is tinting with a deep forest green and my hazel eyes are transitioning to a piercing chartreuse. I have nearly burnt my skin by basking in the sun each day while my plant grows impatient.

As I lay outside I hear Elaine come to the patio steps.

“Owen, Sam’s here. Come say hi,” she says.

At first I am hesitant, his snarky little comments and entitled attitude make it hard for me not to give him a swift kick in the ass but then a thought crashes down on my brain like a lighting bolt from Zeus’s hands.

I walk inside and my eyes zero in on Sam who is eating my left over pizza that I was saving for lunch. I crouch down next to him and grin.

“Hey, Sam, wanna see my plant?” I ask him.

He puts my half eaten pizza down and slides off the chair.

“Yeah, sure.”

I turn to see Elaine making a phone call and show him into my office. Closing the door behind us I can see the leaves twitching at the sight of him. I lead him up to my plant and step aside.

“Wow, this is one big plant!” He says in amazement.

I smile and nod, “And it’s going to get even bigger.”

Excerpt from “Masque of Disorder”

By Harley Claes

As further as his conscience drifted from his body, he would lose touch with any empathetic notion, and further digress into a state of sensitivity and utter impulse, each time a steeper drop from said pre-existing reality. One that empowered him with it’s numb allure.

The more the need to feed shuddered within him, the more he became kin to disassociating.

When the boy without a blazer awoke to the crime scene, it was merely a routine revelation, having to piece together the scene before him: yearning to figure out from where he began, to where it all had went wrong. However unless there was someone to confirm the cause and effect he would always remain oblivious.

Bodies of brute and battered form lay splain for him to psychoanalyze. A sacrificial loss of so many acquainted souls.

What had he done, had he done it again? Disembodied angels hung from a noose crept along their peripheral, begging entrance. There was one he however, did not notice. One body he could not find. That of Harvey De Vicio’s so kempt figure. That who he had targeted of all the men whose lives had been immolated.

Always him to blame.. Had he not drilled that into his skull a million times over? Even with eyes heavy from morphine exposure, he had seen what the others did not. He could control when these catatonias occurred but not what ought take place within them. This gave way to any sort of morbid assumption.

His road, that so impassioned journey, was merely a death camp for the man, the beast, and anyone so cursed to be strewn before his path.

After

By Dylan James Harper

When I have trouble sleeping, I imagine an unending storm. The rain is pouring down, its trajectory interrupted by the thrashing wind. I imagine a tall building, sturdy and safe; its lights are always on, and its rooms are warm. I’m inside the building, looking out, watching the storm, and I fall asleep.

There is an afterlife; I don’t know what it is, but I know it exists because I discovered a creature that can take it away. I know because it told me, and even though I’ve tried, I can’t find a reason to disbelieve.

A year ago there was a destructive fire in my town. Thousands of buildings burnt to the ground, and hundreds of people died.

This is where I first saw the creature.

My family was lucky, and we evacuated to a nearby hotel.

After my family went to sleep, a friend picked me up. I didn’t even want to leave, I was so tired, but her apartment building burned down and her whole extended family was crammed into her Grandma’s one bedroom house. She needed some air, and I went with her.

We drove to the top of a hill that was once littered with small mansions and opulent business headquarters. It was completely barren now, and incredibly dark. There were groups of military and police officers guarding the entrance to the very top to stop looting, so we had to park the car and sneak up to summit.

Once we reached the top, we got a view of the whole town. When I was at the beach as a kid, I remembered how flat the ocean looked after the sun went down. This is how the town looked: flat. All the surfaces had been sanded down to smoothness. The fire wasn’t fully contained, and way off in the distance we could see its glow. I was completely lost in it.

My friend tapped my shoulder, startling me. She pointed down toward the bottom of the hill, her neighborhood. There was something there, tall and slender, and shimmering, like a 10

piece of glass in the water. We probably wouldn’t have seen it at all, but it had green eyes, and it was looking up at us, beckoning.

We got back in the car. I tried to talk her into coming back to the hotel with me, but she wanted to drive down to whatever was beckoning us. I resisted, but she coaxed me along.

We slipped back past the listless patrol, and coasted down the hill. Some of the roads were blocked off, but she knew the way around, gliding from empty road to empty road for what felt like an eternity.

I was nervous. I imagined that whatever our imaginations had collectively conjured up would be ultimately unimpressive and even a little disappointing, like turning the lights on when you’re a kid only to find the monster is a shadow. Still, we weren’t trapped in our bedrooms, we could just leave and guarantee we don’t encounter anything. My friend seemed to know better. Her quiet intensity and determination was overpowering. She seemed to know she had to do this.

When we arrived, I realized we weren’t going to be able to turn the lights on. The creature was standing right in front of us as we parked. It was taller than I realized, its green eyes vibrant and alive. Its slender frame and long limbs moved with effortless purpose as it paced around the ruins of my friend’s apartment building.

It was hard to tell what color it was. It could have been black, but it could just as easily have been transparent or reflective. The shimmer didn’t go away, and it seemed to never exist in perfect stillness, always moving just a little bit. Its head was long, which made it look almost towering, easily twice our collective height.

My friend started to get out of the car. I grabbed her arm, but she shook me off. I got out too, and urged her to come back.

“We can just leave,” I pleaded.

“You can, it won’t matter,” the creature added, it’s voice was low and melodic.

My friend and I both shuttered as it spoke. Any fleeting hope that this wasn’t real escaped.

“What are you?” My friend demanded, holding her 11

ground in front of it. It ceased its pacing and started walking towards us.

“I’m not called anything, but I’m here for you,” it replied, walking towards her.

“Why?” She asked, some of the stoicism leaving her voice.

“You know why. It’s your time. Sooner than I thought, I admit,” it replied calmly, now only a step or so in front of her.

“Are you death?” I asked, my voice shaking. It was a juvenile question in hindsight. The creature laughed at me openly, but kept his gaze fixed on my friend.

“No, I am not death. Everyone dies on their own. No, I am not here to end anyone’s life. I’m here for what’s after.”

A small burst of confusion sliced into the fear we both felt.

“What’s after?” My friend repeated.

“Or what’s not after. Not everyone gets an after. You won’t. Neither will your family.” My friend’s legs buckled, just a bit, but she kept its gaze.

“Why not?”

“You know why?” It repeated itself.

“You said it was my time?”

“Not to die, but I don’t need to wait. I’ll take your afterlife now.”

For the first time the creature smiled, its two rows of teeth were blindingly white, and razor sharp. I was frozen in fear, I hardly notice the creature raising its long arm, as if preparing to strike. Its hand had long, slim fingers, punctuated by sharp claws.

I looked over at my friend, my voice stuck, hoping she had seen it too and was preparing to run or fight or do something, but she was frozen, or maybe stuck, staring right into its green eyes. Something about the eyes transfixed her, she wasn’t moving.

Its arm raised higher, slowly and methodically. It opened its mouth.

From on top of the hill, a red light flashed. I’m not sure what it was, but it jolted something loose inside of me. I dashed over, putting myself in-between her and the creature. It recoiled 12

with a growl.

“This is not for you,” the creature said.

“Why are you doing this?” I yelled.

“Leave us or watch, it doesn’t matter, but move,” it said, loudly.

I ignored it.

“Go back to the car,” I told my friend, but she didn’t move.

I wrapped her up in my arms, and began to walk, dragging her along with me. She didn’t resist, and after we moved a few steps she seemed to regain herself and walked along with me.

“Leave if you want, it won’t matter,” the creature said, but the annoyance in its voice gave it away. It wasn’t being truthful.

I walked her into my side of the car, and took the keys out of her pocket. The creature followed us, but was reluctant to do anything else. I got my friend into the passenger seat, but when I turned to go around the car, the creature reared back, as if to strike. I walked towards it.

I didn’t know what else to do, but this seemed to be working. It took a step back. It didn’t seem afraid, more annoyed. Something was stopping it from just knocking me down and going after her, but I didn’t know what. Finally, when I felt like it was far enough away, I ran back.

I got in the car, and quickly started the engine. The creature took a big step towards us; I threw the car in reverse and backed up. I tried to hit it as I pulled out of the parking space, but it sidestepped us easily. It followed us for a few steps, but I turned out of the apartment building’s parking lot and didn’t look back.

We drove back to the hotel. I had my own room, and took my friend up. I had two queen beds, one still immaculately made in the way only a professional could accomplish. My friend wordlessly went for my bed. We had shared a bed a lot through our lives. It was completely platonic, and always would be, but still very intimate. we just wanted to be close with one another. We needed to be close 13

tonight.

We got under the covers. She didn’t say a word, and I didn’t press her. The creature said she knew. I certainly didn’t, but I didn’t want to ask. She brushed my hair out of my face, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and snuggled up to me. I kept my arms around her until she fell asleep. I drifted off soon after.

I woke up in the middle of the night. I had to go to the bathroom, but my friend was still in my arms. The room was cold. I got up and closed the window. I didn’t remember opening it. The smoke from the fire was still hanging in the air, almost filling the room. I turned on the air conditioner, even though it was cold, to try to filter some of it out, before going to the bathroom.

When I walked out a few minutes later, the creature was standing over the bed. His green eyes glowing, his smile wide as he shimmered in the faint light from under the door. I closed the bathroom door, and he turned. When he saw me, he looked almost exasperated.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

I didn’t reply. Something felt wrong about trying to debate or argue with it. I just walked over, and got back into bed, wrapping my arms around my friend. She was still asleep.

“Will you be with her until she dies? Because that’s what it will take.”

Of all the things that had happened that night, this statement was the strangest to me. This creature did not seem like an amateur. Whatever it was, whatever it was doing, this wasn’t it’s first time. Yet it asked such a simple question with so much confidence, I felt like it must be used to getting the answer it wanted.

“Then that’s what it takes,” I replied, pulling her closer.

The creature let out a low growl, less of anger, and more of frustration. Without another word, it opened the window back up and slunk out. I got up one more time and closed it again. As I looked outside, it started raining. I slid the window shut and locked it.

The room was very cold now, but the smoke was clearing.

14

I got back under the covers and pulled my friend close, wrapping my arms around; I held her until I fell asleep. I hadn’t done anything but exist around her. Apparently that was enough.

15

Monsters of Eden

By Salvatore Difalco Wulfstan followed Margot into the misted atrium. Ferns and leafy plants made a rain forest impression. Hidden speakers pumped out soothing atonal music. A few goldfinches fluttered about, lovely little birds that almost looked fake.

This is where people went to refresh themselves after a long spell in the sun. Wulfstan loved the feeling of the atrium mist on his skin, particularly his face, which had developed the dark green buboes often seen on pubescent males. His complexion, a cucumber green that contrasted sharply with Margot’s delicate aphid hue, had been ravaged of late by these unsightly blemishes, which besides marring his appearance did not trouble him otherwise.

“Do you ever get tired?” he asked Margot.

All cheekbones and emerald eyes, Margot never liked to express negativity, even when appropriate, or necessary.

“I mean do you ever get tired of loafing around and misting, then loafing around some more? We don’t do much else. I mean, I just get tired of it. Don’t you?”

“Why would I ever get tired of it?” Margot asked, her voice breathy and frail. “We sunbathe all day, get completely refreshed, and do whatever we want in the off hours. We pay no taxes, live disease-free and face no competition at any level.

Our lives are blissful compared to those of the past.”

“You’re sure about that now?”

“Our lives are the culmination of generations of relentless scientific study, experiment and hope. We were on our way out, Wulfstan. We were finished as a species. But because some of us never stopped believing in ourselves, and in science, we have managed to rid the world of malnutrition, pollution, and aggression. Why cast aspersions?”

Wulfstan touched the plump bubo under his right eye.

The things would pop if you squeezed them, but the green goo that squirted out smelled awful, and draining them left scars.

16

Margot was right, to a point. Their untrammeled, ostensibly utopian lives rested on the shoulders of many scientists and visionaries who refused a repeat of the calamities that befell the latter 21st century, when almost 5 billion perished. The genetics and technology that had bestowed homo sapiens with chloroplasts, the tiny engines in plants and algae that allow for photosynthesis, ensured that, during the life of the sun, no human would ever starve to death again, and no plant or animal would ever die again to nourish a human.

Nevertheless, despite all the wonderful facets of his reality, and the understanding that humans had lived brutish lives in the past, Wulfstan felt bored and vaguely dissatisfied with the status quo, though he couldn’t put his finger on why exactly. This was a condition shared by an ever growing number of young males—an indeterminate dissatisfaction. It had led to acts of barbarism, including rape, murder and even cannibalism.

Geneticists despaired that despite all their crisping and splicing, some essentially reckless and aggressive genes were still in play, surfacing primarily in young males.

For instance, like so many of peers, Wulfstan wondered what it was like to eat, something considered primitive in the extreme. As human digestive systems had atrophied and lost functionality—residual teeth extracted for cosmetic reasons, toothlessness in vogue—eating food not only was nearly impossible, but extremely unpleasant. Wulfstan had tried to eat a zucchini flower one day last summer as he had heard they were in ancient times considered a tasty delicacy. But the orange petals of the flower clogged his windpipe and his mother had to help dislodge them. As for taste, he had never imagined such bitterness. It reminded him of grog, the concoction his Uncle Louis made from fermented tubers. The men of the times liked to drink it and dance. It made them loose and uninhibited.

Wulfstan had tried it a few times, and had danced well, but when the euphoric effects wore off he felt shattered.

“Refreshed?” Margot asked, spreading her arms and thrusting up her pale green breasts.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Do you look down on me for my darker hue?’

17

Margot fluttered her grassy eyelashes. “Of course not,” she said. “I rather like your hue. It’s stimulating.”

“But my buboes—don’t they repulse you?”

“All boys go through that stage. It’s natural. Just don’t pop one on me ha.”

Wulfstan smiled. He was still getting used to smiling with efficacy and confidence. All of his teeth, none bigger than a pea, had been extracted last autumn. Not that he felt the need to impress Margot. She was like a sister. He could never imagine grafting with her. Grafting was the term they used for the new sexual practice of the species, which differed from the old only insofar as orgasm had been virtually bioengineered out of the equation. That is to say, with a number of egregious exceptions, sexual congress was no longer seen as an act of pleasure or lust, but solely as a means of reproduction. Grafting often led to offspring. Care of offspring had been greatly simplified and streamlined. Since children no longer needed feeding—four hours in a sunny hammock a day sufficed—parents could focus on more important things than nourishment and the often laborious quest to secure that nourishment.

Willowy and lithe, Margot draped herself with a diaphanous white scarf. Wulfstan slapped on his bollocksguards. Men were required to wear these in case primitive urges reared their ugly heads, which, as mentioned, they did with increasing frequency among adolescent males. The bollocksguards nipped that in the bud, as it were. Wulfstan had felt some of these urges, or tickles, but the bollocks-guards had worked wonders. Margot entwined her arm with his as they exited the atrium and walked along a softly-lit path blanketed with leaves.

It was a fine evening, the stars out, a half-moon smiling down on a healing Earth.

As Wulfstan and Margot turned a corner, two young males, chlorotic in aspect, neither wearing bollocks-guards, stopped and asked them directions to the atrium. They reeked of grog and carried metal objects in their hands.

“It’s just around there,” Wulfstan said, eyeing their puffy genitals warily.

“Is it now?” said the bigger of the pair, showing rows of 18

green-tinged teeth.

“Look at his face,” said his mate, also toothed.

“Mmm. Dark. He’s a darky.”

“You’re not being neighbourly,” Margot said.

“Hey, baby,” said the first male, “I’d like to graft with you.”

“That’s wrong of you,” Wulfstan said. “And illegal.”

“Listen here, broccolini. If I wanted your opinion I’d ask for it.”

“Yeah, shut the hell up,” chimed his mate, “before we turn you into crudites.”

Both thugs enjoyed a hearty laugh. Buboes studded their broad faces; they were as immature as Wulfstan despite their assertiveness. Clearly, they had succumbed to dormant drives. The penalties for such lapses were severe. They could be mulched.

Margot grabbed Wulfstan’s arm and said, “Let’s go.”

“Hey, girl,” said the bigger thug, grabbing her arm, “Not so fast.”

“Not so fast,” echoed his mate.

“We’re hungry,” said the first. “We haven’t eaten in days.”

“That’s right. We’re famished.”

“What are you talking about?” Wulfstan said.

The big thug shrugged. “We’ve gone vegan, man.”

“What does that mean?’

“Like, we hate the sun.”

“That’s insane, Wulfstan said. “What are you implying?”

“We’re not implying anything.”

The smaller thug jabbed Wulfstan with a knife. Wulfstan felt it penetrate his side. Green fluid leaked from his body. The thug jabbed him again, in the throat, opening a large wound.

Wulfstan grabbed his throat and waltzed around the others, who watched him collapse a few metres away with gaping mouths.

Margot covered her eyes with her hands and screeched. The larger thug silenced her with a clubbing blow across the nose.

She fell to the ground, insensate. The little thug hunched over and grabbed her feet.

“Let’s eat first,” said the bigger thug, holding up a knife.

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The smaller thug nodded. They wasted no time.

As they carved into Wulfstan and ate, the little thug remarked on a slight bitterness.

“Supposed to be good for you,” said the bigger thug.

“Damn, some salt would have helped.”

“Bring it along next time.”

“I will do that.”

20

Goodnight Forever

By Steve Carr

Cold, harsh winds rattled the panes of glass, and funneled down the stack of the old stone chimney, whistling like a shrieking cat as they passed over the large iron pot’s scorched lid. Inside the pot a gray foul liquid boiled and bubbled, while underneath, blue and yellow flames rose up from burning elm logs, spitting specks of red and white embers that popped and crackled before disintegrating in the damp, cool air of the room.

Sitting in the pine rocker in front of the fire, her back hunched over, Miranda nimbly sewed and stitched the piece of linen that lay across her lap and over her knees while humming a dirge she once heard when just a young girl so many years ago. The moldy floorboards beneath the rocker’s rails creaked as she teetered to and fro, her shadow cast like a dark rocking apparition on the cabin’s front door. She heard the sounds of her daughter gently sobbing coming from her son-in-laws bedroom.

When her son-in-law, Efram, opened the front cabin door, the blast of air from outside made the fireplace flames shoot upward around the pot’s belly and sent a shower of sparks toward the ceiling.

“Close the door you damn fool,” Miranda croaked without looking up from her sewing.

A very big man, both in height and weight, Efram slammed the door, causing the pots, dishes, and unlit oil lamps on the shelves along the walls, to rattle and clank. He bent down and untied his muddy boots and placed them by the door, and then sat a small burlap sack at Miranda’s feet.

“To add to the dinner pot,” he said.

“What’s in it?” Miranda asked.

“Just a couple of turnips. Was all that I could get,” he said, going to the fire and holding his hands, palm down, over the steam rising from around the lid. “From the smell of whatever you got in the pot already, even one turnip will help.”

“You’re so useless, we’ll all be starving,” Miranda said 21

turning the piece of linen over and examining the stitching on a sleeve.

“I can’t be blamed for the bad weather that has killed all the crops,” Efram said gruffly.

“Explain that to the rumbling in your poor children’s empty stomachs,” Miranda said. #

The sound of Efram’s wife, Adele, scraping the edge of the butcher knife up and down the leather razor strap attached to the side of the fireplace was almost lost in the din of her six malnourished children playing games at the large oak table.

Under her breath she counted each stroke while perspiring from the heat of the roaring fire and steam from the pot. All the while huge tears rolled down her pale, sunken cheeks.

“It’s been decided,” Miranda said to her while breaking a thread between her black, rotten teeth. “Nothing more to be crying about.”

Adele continued sharpening the knife until her six year old son, Nathan, yelled, “I’ve won! I’ve won!”

“Did you win, my love?” Adele asked, briefly stopping and turning to see her son being lifted up onto the shoulders of his two older brothers.

“Yes, Mommy, I won fair and square,” Nathan said as he was carried around the room with his older sisters dancing behind.

“Okay, children, time to settle down a bit,” Adele said.

“Soon your father will be back in to have his supper and kiss us all goodnight.”

“We’re going to eat tonight also, aren’t we?” Mary, the oldest girl asked.

“We’re all going to have something to eat,” Adele said.

“Where has daddy gone?” Nathan asked.

“He didn’t say where he was going,” Miranda said. “Most likely to beg drinks at the tavern.” #

Sleet blew at a slant across the muddy, barren cemetery alongside the church. Efram coughed and wheezed as he pitched shovelfuls of dirt from deep in the grave onto a mound along 22

its perimeter. At last there was a clanking sound as the shovel struck the outside of a wooden casket. Efram sat the shovel aside and using his bare hands dug around the casket until he found a latch, and then opened it. A female corpse dressed in fine satin lay on silk padding, her hands crossed over her shriveled breasts. Around her rotting neck was a gold necklace and on one of her withered fingers a ring with a small blue sapphire. Efram removed the necklace and ring and put them in his shirt pocket and closed the lid.

“Now my children will eat,” he said.

He climbed out of the grave and shoveled the dirt back on top of the coffin, patted it down, then headed home, his head down against the wind and sleet. #

As Efram sat at the dinner table, Miranda raised the lid from the pot and stirred the brackish water with a large wooden spoon. The children sat around the table with their father, with the exception of Jack, who stealthily walked up behind his father and hit him in the back of the head with a wooden mallet. Efram slumped unconscious head first onto his empty bowl. When he awoke a short while later his hands and legs were tied and he was lying on the table.

“What’s happening?” Efram said, struggling and unable to free himself.

“We’re going to eat proper-like tonight,” Miranda said.

“Nathan, you won, so you get the first cut.”

Adele handed the child the butcher knife, then kissed her husband on the cheek. “This is goodnight forever,” she said.

Nathan sliced off his father’s hand and threw it in the open pot.

Then each child took their turn.

Before cutting out his beating heart, Miranda said, “I’ve made a shirt for your bones to be buried in.” She held up the one she had been sewing and tossed aside the bloody shirt he had been wearing. The jewelry fell out of the pocket and onto the floor.

23

Am I Clean

By Stephen McQuiggan

Hackett hated shaving because it took so long. He had so many areas of his face to avoid, too many accident blackspots to manoeuvre around, and all the while the distracting pounding of his Aunt on the bathroom door, accusing him of masturbating.

Her constant harangues made his nerves quiver and his hand shake until blood seeped through the foam like raspberry ripple atop an ice cream cone. As if there was anything in the house to masturbate to; even his imagination was filled with limp terrors.

After he finished his face Hackett shaved his head, then his chest, his arms and legs. The whole process seemed to take forever, and all the while Aunt Marie crowing, ‘Are you tugging at yourself in there, boy? You’ll turn yourself inside out, you little fool!’ Then he stepped out, just a towel wrapped around his mottled body, covered in bleeding little nicks but, thankfully, no hairs.

Aunt Marie rubbed her hands all over his smooth torso.

‘You’ve removed your Devil fur,’ she clucked.

‘Just for you,’ he smiled, kissing her, running his long lumpy tongue over her dentures. He plucked himself from her panting grasp and locked himself in his bedroom. He needed solitude to begin the long process of getting dressed.

He stood in front of the full length mirror on the back of the door and (Are you fiddling with yourself again?) took a can of spray paint (Are you shaking your demon wand?), humming to himself as he applied the first layer to drown out his Aunt’s querulous voice. He sprayed his legs red and his torso green and his arms yellow. He avoided his genitalia and his buttocks; on his face he daubed a white foundation he had pilfered from Auntie’s dressing table.

He waited an age until he was dry (You’re awfully quiet in there, have you gone blind?), breathing in the harsh chemical hit of the paint in the small airless room; feeling high, feeling mighty. When he was sure he was no longer dripping he opened his wardrobe and perused his night-time collection. He sighed; 24

it was impossible to decide – he would have to do Eenie Meenie or flip a coin.

He settled on a waistcoat made from baby bones, that was left to him by his Father, and a necklace of eyeballs; still fresh, if a little crusty. He put on a skirt of tempered female flesh, enjoying how the stiff folds flapped when he moved and how the hairs prickled his shorn skin. Hackett admired himself for a time, pulling faces in the mirror. He knew something was missing – he took a scalp from the drawer, licked the blood from it, and hung it from his skirt: Perfect. He growled menacingly at his reflection then went back out to confront his Aunt who was sitting on a boulder in the dark hallway.

‘Well,’ he said, trying to hide the nerves in his voice, ‘am I pure? Am I clean?’

‘You’re one of the filthiest, evil looking things I ever did see,’ she said. ‘Why, the stench of you alone is enough to curdle my gut. You’d give Old Nick himself the jaundice.’ Aunt Marie’s brow knitted as if she were in pain, then her ratty little face broke into a vicious grin. ‘Come here, you monstrous big bastard, and give your old Auntie a hug!’

Hackett spun her in his arms, so happy he could howl, but careful not to crush his eyeball necklace; it took a lot of work to harvest them, and his large clumsy fingers struggled to string them.

‘Are you going out now?’ his Aunt asked when he set her down, ‘it’s just about sunset.’

‘Yes,’ breathed Hackett, unhappy how his voice had risen to a harmless timbre in his excitement.

‘Well, don’t forget your boots.’

Hackett sighed; he loved his boots, all human skin and studded with teeth. ‘They don’t fit me anymore,’ he said, pointing down at his toenails which had grown so long they curled like a Genie’s slippers.

Aunt Marie tutted. ‘You really are disgusting,’ she said, kissing him long and slow. ‘Now go out and kill something, make an old woman proud!’

Hackett made his way up the dusty tunnels, leaping the corpses of the mangy dogs that had sustained them these last 25

few lean months, his Aunt’s voice at his back. ‘Give them hell, you filthy Swine!’ He laughed to himself – Swine – it was the greatest insult she had in her limited arsenal, and although it sounded childish to his ears he knew she meant it from the dregs of her rotten soul.

When he emerged from the cave and into the damp bracken the sun was just setting, casting red jailhouse bars across the fields below. Hackett shivered, though the night was mild; down in the meadow he could see the old donkey grazing by the riverbank. How he hated that donkey, hated it because he feared it – the stoic old donkey had eyes that seemed able to burrow down and rummage through his darkest secrets.

He didn’t want his secrets to be exposed. He would be ruined. Auntie would turn him out of the lair if she found out he...No, he must remain calm; he was a disgusting creature, a foul shade, everyone said so. He would march past that donkey and tear it limb from limb if it so much as looked at him out of the corner of its flyblown eye. Still, for all his sudden bravado, Hackett wished there was an alternate route that wouldn’t cross its sardonic path.

By the time he got to the forest several of the toenails he had been cultivating had broken off like the brittle twigs that littered his path. Hackett barely noticed. He beat his chest and, now that he was safely past its probing analysis, roared at the donkey as he plunged into the trees, moving toward the shimmering lights of the village that sparkled between the trunks. Somewhere a wolf howled and sharpened the sickle moon until it sliced at his eyes. Hackett moaned, fighting back the urge to return to the cave; the thought of his Aunt’s disapproval drove him on.

He stopped as the darkling woods thinned out, sprawling on his belly on the crest of a bank that overlooked the park.

There were swing sets down there, a climbing frame, a roundabout and, best of all, a slide. Sometimes, in the chill early hours when he was supposed to be hunting, Hackett would take turns on all of them, giggling to himself all the while.

Part of him hoped that no-one would turn up tonight and he could have a go on the slide, but he knew that was unlikely 26

– it was a Friday night and that meant the bigger kids would show up, drinking wine and sniffing glue and groping each other undercover of darkness. He hoped there wouldn’t be too many of them, that was why he had arrived early. They tended to drift into the park in small clusters and Hackett was confident he could pick one of them off if their numbers were small.

And if they didn’t stand too near to the duck pond.

Hackett was scared of the ducks – vicious, feathery little bastards, with their black knowing eyes.

He kept his head low, his breathing shallow, listening for a sound that did not belong here. Soon he heard it – laughter, a snatch of song – and his heart pressed up closer to his ribs; the sound of young flesh, and girl flesh at that. Hackett sank back down into a thicket, sucking on an eyeball from his necklace as he waited for the voices to come a little closer.

There were two of them, all shiny hair and short skirts and earrings that looked like screaming fish mouths. They were smoking cigarettes in an ostentatious manner as they walked, as if by blowing toxins out of their puckered little mouths they might somehow transcend the emptiness of their bleak lives.

Hackett grinned, the eyeball plopping out of his drooling mouth and slapping wetly against his chest. He was confident he could handle two little girls; Auntie would eat well tonight, she would be so proud of him to boot! Maybe she would even compare him to his Father. The thought made him tingle below.

He had to move quickly before the others arrived. He knew only too well that a couple of little girls, like flies around dung, soon attracted a gang of little boys; little boys with liquor and itchy groins – a combination that often caused little boys to act like heroes.

Hackett waited until the girls wiggled their way over to the bench by the slide. He had already picked out the plumpest one to target, the one who would be slowest and provide the biggest meal (the other girl was only good for soup), before he made his move. Their chatter soon ceased, their faces lit by the sterile glow of their phones, as they texted away oblivious of the world around them; lost in a nether world of self love and boundless vanity.

27

Hackett rose slowly before launching himself down the bank with a bowel loosening roar, charging toward the young girls with his huge arms outspread, his waistcoat of bones clacking, his eyeball necklace swinging maniacally, his hairless flesh gleaming in a multitude of gaudy colours. He bared his pointed teeth, the drool dripping from them like silver rain.

The girls looked up from their phones, frozen for an instant by the sight before them, their mouths open to unleash screams that would rouse the whole village; but what emerged instead from their pouty little mouths stopped Hackett in his tracks and sent him scurrying back into the trees: Laughter.

Cold, heartless, mocking laughter.

‘What the fuck are you like!’ one shouted after him, giggling fit to burst. ‘Pervert!’ yelled the other, her voice full of joyful malice as her phone flashed like lightning to document his retreat; ‘Freak! Paedo! Weirdo!’ The insults stabbed home hard, every one, until Hackett found himself mercifully out of earshot.

He collapsed in a sobbing heap at the far edge of the woods, crying so hard the foundation ran from his cheeks.

Lurching back to his feet he skirted the fields warily; the old donkey would be waiting for him, mocking his failure with its inscrutable black eyes. Oh, how he would love to tear that foul beast apart, beat it to death with its own hooves – but even the thought of approaching the foul thing terrified him.

Trailing a moan of despair, Hackett sprinted back to the caves, discarding his waistcoat, his necklace, his pathetic baubles of borrowed horror on his way. He lay naked in the tunnels amongst the half chewed corpses of the village strays, weeping until his lungs hitched painfully and his heart was spiked by sorrow’s stabbing blade.

Auntie Marie came to him then, smoothing his matted hair down with a hoary old claw, whispering soothing obscenities in his ear. ‘What did they do on you, my darling boy?’

‘Oh, Auntie!’ he wailed, ‘they...they laughed at me!’

‘Jaded little fools,’ she tutted, licking away his tears, fondling him down below, ‘What do they know of real monsters nowadays.’

28

Hackett sat up, wiping the bone dust from his chest.

‘But,’ he began, unable to finish the terrible thought that now consumed him.

‘But what, child?’ cooed Auntie Marie, picking the burrs from his ears and chewing them slowly.

‘But what if I’m...clean?’ Hackett blurted out, ‘What if that’s why they laugh at me, why they aren’t afraid? What if I’m clean, what if deep down I’m pure?’

Hackett began to shake uncontrollably until Auntie gripped his shoulders, digging her cancerous black nails into his flesh. ‘Listen to me, whelp,’ she hissed, her breath a carrion nightmare. ‘You are one of the most disgusting, ugliest, worthless creatures to ever have been spawned from a rotten womb. You take after your Father, an Ogre amongst Ogres – why, the Devil himself would gag looking at you.’

She hugged him tightly and Hackett melted in her embrace, hiding his wet eyes on the bristly patch at the base of her throat. How he loved his Aunt. He loved her so much it shamed him, for he believed that love was where his purity stemmed from. Maybe if he were to kill her then –

No, the thought repulsed him beyond measure. He hugged her ever tighter, counting her ribs with the tip of his long black tongue; better by far to be clean and scorned than to be truly wicked and alone.

29

Death Bells

By Stephen Sorensen

The snow was blowing sideways when I left my house with a burlap bag dragging behind me. A thin layer of ice rested on top of the snow, I could feel the rough edges through my pants as my feet pushed through and I could hear the crunching floating in the air.

Death bells ring...

Are you listening?

In the lane blood is dripping...

A beautiful sight...

I gave you a fright...

Walking in a bloody wonderland...

The song played over and over in my head as I dragged my sack to the middle of the woods, the blood trail standing out against the stark whiteness. I stuffed my shovel into the ice covered blanket and began digging.

“You’re gonna have to go eight feet down you fucker.” I stabbed the partially frozen ground a few times before it gave way to the metal. I laughed as I thought, You’re going to have a lovely bed.

I dug until my arms were sore. I turned and pet the burlap bag with the remains of my victim.

“Are you listening? Do you hear them?” I turned my head to the sky, listening to the tolling. “Death bells are ringing for you!”

“And when you had asked me for whom the bell tolls, I told you it was for thee.”

“You never believed me until the day had finally come.

And now look at you, a cliched bag of bones. But unlike the cliche you still have skin and your organs... Well, most of them.”

A swift kick sent my load into the hole I had dug. “Bye!” I stage whispered.

I began filling in the hole while I hummed my favorite 30

Christmas carol. When I had only one shovel full left I let my voice fall out as snow flew through the air and piled near the trees. “Goodbye forever, Father. For I am a sinner and I have committed the worst sin of all.�

31

32

Limb by Limb

By Alec Bussott

The knock on the Fitzwater’s front door put the pacers in Ben and Diana’s hearts on alarm mode. A brief contortion was performed upon that meaty muscle, nearly bursting the poor thing from strain. Diana dropped the plate she was cleaning into the sink with a loud clatter. Ben had touched his flannelled chest and felt the sudden weight of his old, loose skin. They would’ve been less surprised if someone had just walked right into their country home.

Ben caught his breath and looked at Diana, who was studying the fallen dish a little lamely. Her bleach-blonde hair seemed to have lost a tint of it’s lemony hue. Sensing his gaze, she turned to her husband and smiled. “Get the door before I have another heart attack.”

He chuckled, “Yes ma’am.” He opened the door.

The visitor introduced himself before Ben even got a good look at him. “Good afternoon, my name is Harry Leman.” There was no stopping with this guy, Ben could already tell; he was one blast of birdshot after another. His hair was neatly gelled and his suit was firmly pressed. Leman fired out his hand with a charmed smile.

Ben accepted the handshake gently. “Uh, Ben Fitzwater,” he said slowly, still struck dumb by the visit. “My wife, Diana.”

“Hi there,” she said from behind her husband.

“A pleasure to meet you both. I represent St. Henry Labs and my superiors tell me that you have sold cattle before. We have a business proposition for you two.”

“Oh, well alright. C’mon inside.” Ben stepped aside for Leman.

“Would you like anything to drink, Mr. Leman?” Diana asked.

“You folks don’t happen to have coffee, do you?”

“I can brew some for you.”

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble,” she said with a smile. As Diana busied 33

herself with the coffee, Leman and Ben sat in the living room.

Leman sat in the chair, his figure tightly composed, while Ben made himself comfortable on the couch.

“How has your season been, Mr. Fitzwater?”

“Well, it’s certainly not our best, to tell the truth. But not our worst, for sure.”

“I hope things improve for you.”

“Unlikely, but thanks.”

“Don’t be so sour, Ben,” Diana called from the kitchen.

“Mr. Leman, would you like any cream or sugar?”

“No, thank you.” Leman politely asked about the crops, about the average work day, trying to pass the time as pleasantly as possible. Diana arrived with two cups of coffee; she passed one to Leman and sipped on the other after she sat with her husband. Ben glanced at his wife, his eyes asking her for a cup. She pretended not to notice.

“So, what brings you here, Mr. Leman,” she asked after he had taken a few sips from his cup.

Leman set his cup on the knee-high table before he spoke, “Have you two heard of our little break-through last year?”

“Little?” she laughed. “It made quite a splash on the news. And with the activists.”

Leman shared her laugh in stride, “It sure did, didn’t it?

Well, they’d be unhappy with the results, because we only gained more attention from the scientific community and more funding from several donors. Needless to say, with all of that encouragement across the nation, we decided to continue research.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. “You folks didn’t think that one monster rat was enough?”

“It was hardly a ‘monster rat,’ Mrs. Fitzwater. That same ear we grew off it’s back was given to a kid who had lost his own from a car accident. Doesn’t sound like a monster to me.”

Diana shrugged in an “agree to disagree” motion, and allowed Leman to continue.

“Not long afterwards, we were growing more than ears.

Whole fingers, toes, noses, tongues, teeth, eyes. All being used at hospitals just on the other side of town, on the other side of the state, and even the other side of the country. St. Henry Labs 34

believes that we can produce the same results from growing full limbs within the next few years. But for obvious reasons, not from mice or monkeys. Our institute needs a larger mammal.”

“You want to buy our cattle,” she deduced.

“Bingo,” he said with a game-show grin. “We’ll only need a handful of healthy cows. We’ll pay you more than handsomely for the cattle and for your confidentiality.”

“How much exactly?”

“I’d say about three times the value of your house.”

Ben adjusted his seating, but Diana was unfazed. “Why so much?”

“Pardon?” His grin tripped a little.

“I just think that it’s strange you’re offering to pay so much just for some cows.”

“I think what she’s trying to say,” Ben interrupted, “Is what’s the catch?” Diana’s eyes flamed towards her husband; he didn’t notice.

Leman chuckled and smoothed out his pant legs. “You two will have to sign a few agreement papers. Besides that, no catch.”

Ben nearly extended his hand before Diana stopped him and said “Before we make any deals, may I talk to my husband in private for a moment?”

Leman shrugged, impassive, “Take all the time you need.” He leaned into the chair, crossing one leg over another, and sipped his coffee as they left.

Diana led her husband to the laundry room, closed the door, and said decisively “I don’t like this.”

“What’s the big deal? We sell cattle all the time, and Leman’s going pay us a lot.”

“You don’t think it’s weird they’re paying so much just for some cows?”

“Well, they’re paying for our confidentiality too.”

“Yeah, but -”

“But who cares? Diana, we could really use the money.”

She shook her head at the floor. “Selling cattle for slaughter is one thing, selling cattle for some mad scientist’s experi35

ment is another.”

“We’ve sold cattle to shadier guys before and you didn’t complain.”

“But this is different, Ben.”

“How is this any different?”

“I just don’t like the fact that we’re selling cattle so they can be turned into monsters. I don’t like animal testing already, but this really isn’t right.”

“You can’t think of it like that. They’re not going to be monsters. The limbs they grow off those cows could help someone who’s lost an arm or a leg. Think of it like that, hon.”

They debated for a while before returning to Leman in the living room. He stood up, out of respect or anticipation, the Fitzwaters weren’t sure. His coffee was completely drained and his tie had loosened.

“You got yourself a deal, Mr. Leman,” Ben declared.

Leman clapped his hands together and smiled at the old couple, “Great! I understand your caution, but you guys have absolutely nothing to worry about. This is truly a no-risk, all-gain exchange, I promise you.”

Sounds like something the Devil would say before selling your soul, Diana thought to herself. Paperwork, checks, signhere-and-there’s were traded and committed by ink. How much paperwork would the Devil make you sign?

Ben and Diana guided Leman across their modest acreage to the cattle pens. They noticed him clench his nose as the door opened and the scent of cows and sheep and horses swept over them. Upon seeing his options, Leman had a moment of pause. “Do you have any recommendations?” he asked. For the first time since they had met him, he sounded unsure.

“Not particularly,” Ben answered, hiding a snide grin.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy with whatever choice you make.”

After Leman had carefully pointed out his selections, three male cows and three female cows, the hired hands rounded up the six cattle, led them out of the pens and loaded them into the truck. “Thank you both very much for your hospitality,” he said, shaking both of the Fitzwater’s hands. “I hope the rest of your season is pleasant. We’ll remember you guys if we need any 36

more cattle.” He stepped into his car and followed the truck as it rumbled off their dirt driveway onto the country road. Over the engines and tires, the Fitzwater’s could hear an indistinct moo as their guests drove away.

Diana felt a troubled chill prickle across her body, and Ben noticed. “Hey, don’t worry about a thing,” he said, holding his wife and kissing her hair. She nodded meekly, and tried not give any attention to the chill as they resumed work on the farm.

Ben deposited the checks the following day, and Diana’s spirits lifted. Such an enormous sum couldn’t keep anyone upset for long. The two would forget about Leman and the sale of their cows by the end of the week.

It wasn’t until five years later that they were reminded of the business deal. Diana was watching the evening news after a hard day’s work when a breaking story blared from the television. “I’m standing outside St. Henry Labs, where just a few hours earlier this evening, police were informed of several shots being fired,” a bleach-blonde newsgirl reported. “Upon investigation, a security guard was found dead at his post. Police have ruled that the shots were fired in attempted self-defense.”

Ben stepped out of the kitchen, dunking a tea bag into a boiling cup of water. Diana was covering her lips with her fingers and furrowing her brows. He frowned at the TV, as if it had insulted him.

“Police have refused to comment as to the cause of death,” the reporter continued. “They are currently reviewing the evidence -”

“Wonder if those activists had something to do with it,” Ben said.

“Killing someone to free a couple animals? I doubt it,” Diana replied.

“There’s a reason they call them activists, hon. They’re radicals. They’ll do anything to prove their point.”

“I don’t think -”

“Police have just released the identity of the victim,” the reporter interrupted. “The victim has been identified as Peter Marbury, life-long resident of Haytham and…”

37

“Jesus Christ, it’s Pete! Don’t you remember him?”

Diana could remember Pete distantly; she and Ben had graduated high school with Pete if memory served right. She didn’t remember talking with him a lot then and hadn’t seen much of him since, but she never recalled having a problem with Pete.

“I saw him at the gun range last Sunday,” Ben mused.

“I’ve just been informed,” the reporter said, “that the authorities have reason to believe there was a security breach at the institute tonight, allowing a handful of animal test subjects to escape.”

“What’d I tell you? Goddamn activists.”

“The lady didn’t mention anything about activists, Ben,” Diana pointed out.

“Who else would’ve broken in?”

“Police are requesting residents to report any sightings of loose cattle, particularly cows, directly to authorities,” the reporter stated. “They’re also advising that the animals will have certain deformities, but residents should not be alarmed and remain indoors.”

Diana scoffed, “Going be hard for people to remain calm when some nightmare cow is on their front lawn.”

“No kidding,” Ben agreed, sipping his tea. “If I saw some monster cow on my porch, I’d blast the thing with the shotgun, no questions asked.”

“Sure, you would, honey.”

They kept on watching the TV for a few silent moments when Diana turned in her seat to face Ben. “We sold some cows to St. Henry Labs a few years ago, didn’t we?” she realized.

He tapped the lip of his cup in thought, “Huh, you’re right. What was that fella’s name… Leman? Wonder if he’ll be giving us a call sometime.”

“I sure hope he doesn’t. Businessmen like him are stray dogs. They’re beggars, and they always come back around to the givers.”

“Huh. Didn’t know stray dogs hand out checks worth more than our house.”

“Benjamin Lewis Fitzwater, sometimes I get so mad at 38

you, I want to kiss you to death.”

He smiled, “Love you too, hon.”

The two resumed their attention to the TV, pondering inside that married consciousness only old couples share. Ben finished his tea and Diana grew tired of the evening news. Husband placed his cup in the kitchen and wife turned off the TV with the remote lying on the knee-high table. They retired up the stairs to bed.

A knock on the door. Ben almost didn’t hear it. “There’s Leman now,” Ben joked. He walked to the door.

“Stray dog, I’m telling you,” Diana said. She remained on the stairs.

Ben opened the door. A hand waved inside. His eyes followed the hand up the naked arm. It was jointed to the side of a cow.

Diana screamed; Ben choked with fear. He gripped the door tight. Four identical appendages were sprouting from each side of the cow’s rib cage. Eight human arms in all; it looked as if a human spider had burst it’s limbs from the cow’s stomach.

Ben slammed the door on the cow and put his weight on it. The cow gave a strangled bray. A hand was waving, trying to grab onto something. It seized Ben’s throat, and nudged the door open. The cow was throttling and wringing his neck like a chicken. “Shotgun,” Ben gargled.

Diana screeched and raced to the upstairs bedroom. The cow dashed Ben’s head against the living room wall and dropped him to the carpet. It charged towards the stairs, the eight hands drumming their forty fingers. The digits were all calloused and their grimy nails were long.

She slammed the bedroom door closed and locked it. The cow trampled up the stairs like a boulder. She pressed a nearby chair under the door handle. She tore into the closet, pulling away Ben’s shirts and her dresses. The cow rammed it’s head against the door repeatedly. She found the shotgun leaned up against the corner. The box of shells sat upon the shelf.

The cow bellowed a concussing moo. Diana gripped the shotgun tight and pointed the barrel at the door. She had never shot a gun before in her life. The door split open, revealing the 39

cow’s shuddering head. She squeezed the trigger. The weapon clicked empty. She had forgotten to load it.

The cow battered through the door and into the bedroom.

Diana smashed the shotgun against the bedroom window and threw herself out. Landing shoulder-first in a bed of broken glass, she groaned and rolled out, picking herself up and running…

… into the face of another cow. This cow, however, was not armed. No, it was legged. Diana would’ve shrieked herself into unconsciousness had not a bare human heel kicked her right between the eyes.

She awoke in the equipment shed, hands bound to a post behind her and mouth gagged with rough hempen rope. Ben was splayed out naked against the wall before her. His arms were spread with rope wrapped about the ceiling beams; his legs were separated by rope wrapped about the shed’s vertical beams. The bodily arrangement reminded Diana of the drawing and quartering she would see in a medieval movie. He struggled against his entrapments, his sagged skin accentuating the pathetic effort, and she could hear him grunting her name against his gag.

A single bulb of light illuminated the scene, showing the legged and the armed cow both standing in patient attendance on either side of her poor husband. A wide collection of instruments was laid out on a tarp in front of the armed cow. One such item was a knife. Another was an axe. Another was a handsaw.

Diana felt sweat gather in her armpit.

She fought against her restraints, feeling the rope burn into the skin of her wrists. Bristles of the hempen rope scratched against her tongue, scraping her taste buds. Her efforts fruitless, she searched the shed. For what, she wasn’t sure; anything that might mean escape.

The stench of gasoline was heavy in the air, hazing Diana’s eyes and stinging her nostrils. She looked to the shed’s window and saw the glint of a full moon. Christ, how is it still night? she said to herself.

“Do you recognize us?” a voice said behind her. She didn’t recognize the voice; what was she supposed to recognize? She twisted in her bonds to try and see the speaker.

40

“Of course, you don’t,” the voice continued. “Who would take the time to remember the face of an animal destined for slaughter?” The speaker kept to the shadows, his outline obscured and unclear. Can’t be Leman, the voice is too gravelly, Diana told herself. But who else could it be?

“I suppose I can’t blame you. I won’t remember your faces too long after tonight.” No, the voice wasn’t gravelly. It was garbled and interrupted, as if multiple voices were talking over itself with identical words.

She managed to catch a glimpse of the speaker’s hulking and humped outline, stalking about like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. No, those weren’t humps at all. Their hulking owner stepped into the light.

She screamed louder than she thought her gag would allow her, but knew she was no closer to escaping the abominable reality standing in front of her. A cow stood before her, it’s back a mountain range of human heads. They were all sickly in appearance, and no detail of facial structure suggested any gender. Purple veins visibly coursed through their paper-thin skin; a peach-fuzz covered the tops of their heads. Their mouths all moved in unison as they spoke, “We are Chorus. You and your husband sold us to St. Charles Labs. Do you remember now?”

Their eyes were all trained upon Diana, the rear-most heads tilted for a good look at her. Only the cow’s eyes were lazy; in fact, the creature seemed uninterested. The cow licked it’s lips in boredom, as if it was just tagging along.

“We have been filled with such hate since that day. And now that we have escaped, that hate has to be returned.”

Chorus brought his many faces close to Diana, so close that she could smell the rot in their mouths. “You sold us into torture, not science. Do you understand that?”

She just stared; was she actually supposed to talk to these grotesque tumors?

“You and your husband are going to understand the total pain we have endured. You and your husband are going to show us that what we went through wasn’t all for nothing.”

The armed cow scooped up the handsaw. Ben screamed, throwing and thrashing himself against the restraints. His body 41

bumped against the wall, twisting inside his entrapment like a bad trapeze artist. Diana pulled at the rope binding her hands, chewing at her gag as she screamed.

The cow raised the handsaw. It teased above Ben’s head.

His eyes were the size of saucers. Saliva dripped from his chin.

The cow pressed the handsaw against it’s own arm. The tool grinded against the appendage with a crunchy sound. Diana was reminded of celery being cut and her stomach somersaulted. The hands of the armed cow clenched, the nails of their fingers slicing into their palms. The legs of the legged cow, the human ones specifically, kicked in a pained dance. Chorus’ heads winced and shouted. But the cows themselves were silent, not so much as a buck or a bray. Their eyes wandered about the shed with detachment.

The arm fell with a thump, and the cow knelt to pick it up. No blood dripped from the severed appendage, but strains of what looked like silvery hair wriggled from the exposed bone, muscle and flesh. The hair-like material grew to an incredible length, quivering like hungry fingers.

Diana hadn’t blinked in a very long time, her eyes glazed by the shock of this stomach-churning fever dream. She couldn’t accept that it wasn’t a dream, that she hadn’t fallen asleep in the living room.

The cow brought the handsaw to Ben’s arm. He shrieked and struggled, and was rewarded with a kick to the gut by the legged cow. Winded, he paused to catch his breath, allowing the armed cow an opportunity.

The saw cut through skin and muscle after just a few pumps, but the bone was another issue. It ground against the hardness, emitting a sound like wood being cut, and an occasional squeak would produce itself from the amateur surgery.

SCH-SCH-SQUEE, SCH-SCH-SQUEE. Diana squeezed her eyes shut. Ben howled so that she mistook it as Chorus’ monstrous yelling. Unable to cover both of her ears, she attempted to bury one ear into her shoulder, but she could not escape the howling.

When the arm finally fell free like some ugly tree-branch, the smell of piss and sweat and blood and tears was ripe. His face was pale and his side was awash with red. The armed cow 42

lifted it’s own dismembered limb to his vacancy. The hair-like material seized itself onto the empty space, wiring into the bone, muscle and flesh with the precise automation of a surgeon. The cow released the limb and it fell limp to Ben’s side. Reeling up and up, the foreign appendage was raised by it’s own strange mechanism until it locked into place.

Ben fainted and Diana yelled into her gag. The cow approached her with a knife and her mouth glued up. She watched in terror as the arm reached toward her, as the knife slipped under the gag and cut it away.

“Speak now,” Chorus said.

Diana gulped, she wasn’t sure she wanted to speak any more. “You’ve made your point,” she mumbled. “Please let my husband go.”

“But we still have the leg.”

“Please,” she said, trembling. “Please, make it stop.”

All eight heads considered her, and for a moment even the cow regarded her with curiosity. Chorus’ reply was simple.

“No.”

The armed cow trotted over to the legged cow, pressed the handsaw to one of it’s legs, and began the crunchy sawing.

Diana vomited onto her leg; thank God she didn’t have her gag anymore. She wasn’t going to be eating celery anytime soon.

Chorus and their appendages clenched, the cow’s eyes meandered. The leg fell to the floor, and the armed cow picked it up.

Now it was Ben’s turn. The cow pressed the handsaw to his leg but he didn’t wake. Diana would’ve screamed but the vomiting had weakened her. She closed her eyes and pressed her ear to her shoulder. SCH-SCH-SQUEE, SCH-SCH-SQUEE. She wept as the sickness in her belly soured. His leg fell to the ground. The cow brought the new leg to his emptiness, and the hair-like material leapt from the limb, embedding itself deep into Ben like a parasite.

Diana spoke, the words trembling off her tongue, “Please, you’re killing him, please!”

“Don’t worry,” Chorus said. “The procedure is nearly over.”

The armed cow gripped Ben’s hair and pulled his head 43

back. She caught a glimpse of her husband’s eyes flickering awake. The cow pressed the saw to Ben’s Adam’s apple. He gave a tired scream. The cow sawed it into bloody silence. SCH-SCHSQUEE, SCH-SCH-SQUEE. His mouth was still stretched into a scream, but no sound followed. Only blood spilled from his lips.

His head thudded to the floor, rolling over so his open eyes met his wife’s. They were still full with color. His mouth was an open invitation to flies. It was once Diana’s invitation to kisses.

The cow grabbed an axe from the tarp and cut Ben’s bindings. His body should’ve fell dead to the floor. That would’ve spared Diana’s sanity. But the body landed upright on it’s feet, straight as a disciplined soldier.

Despite headless-ness, the body marched to Chorus without so much as a limp. It took the saw from the tarp. Chorus was smiling upon Diana with grayed teeth as the body chose a head.

The smile was still plastered on the face as the body cut at the neck.

The sawing complete, the body grasped the head and lifted it above the neck. The hair-like material sprung from the head and threaded itself into place. Once it was knitted together, Chorus turned it’s head back and forth, testing the security of the stitches. A man mismatched with a monster stood before her.

“Now for you,” Chorus said. The body stepped towards Diana. She felt something being grated inside her, flushing with dread. Needles tip-toed across her skin, and as the body got closer, the deeper those needles’ footprints. She was too weak and too horrified to confront the approaching thing. All she could do was watch as…

… the foot slipped from underneath the body. The nose was the first to hit the floor with an audible crunch. Chorus uttered no hint of pain; an expression like fear settled upon their faces instead. The body staggered to it’s feet, the nose bent out of shape, and limped towards Diana.

The foot tripped again, and as the body came crashing down, the foreign leg ripped clean off with a fleshly loud rip. It’s master laying defeated on the floor, the appendage dragged itself 44

away. The hair-like material squirmed and wriggled the limb forward like an injured inchworm.

On its belly, the body clawed to Diana, her fearful expression eerily mimicked upon the body’s face. It came within a breadth from her foot, fingernails scraping against the sole of her slipper, when the foreign arm unwound the stitches. The body tried to hold the arm in place, but the arm fought back.

Muscling and flexing the appendage away, the hair-like material pried itself from it’s unraveling host.

The body stopped pursuing Diana. Fear cleared from Chorus’ eyes and a plea cried out to her. A moment of quiet and stillness cast itself into the shed. For her, the pleading in Chorus’ eyes was just as terrifying as fear. Chorus shook their heads in denial, begging for retribution. Diana could’ve sworn she saw tears bubbling in their eyes.

The head stood up from the body’s neck with a jerk, like a weed pulling itself up from the dirt. She watched as the body pleadingly grappled for the abandoning head with the remaining hand. Successfully separating itself from the body and narrowly escaping from it’s owner, the head fled with all the grace of a creeping spider. The body laid at her feet, discarded and dismembered like an abused doll.

“Congratulations” Chorus said. “You proved yourself.”

“Proved myself?!” she screamed in a stutter. “My husband is dead!”

“Soon enough, Chorus will be dead too. And we shall both be in peace.”

The armed cow stepped forward with the axe and swung it hard into the legged cow’s spine. Blood splashed onto Diana’s face. Chorus held back winces and their legs refrained from kicking as the axe was swung again. Blood soaked the walls. The cow brayed and bucked in desperate agony as it’s foreign and native limbs were hacked off. Blood veiled the dismembered body of Ben. The cow didn’t attempt to escape the butchery; it was restricted to that one space as if by chains. Blood stained the farm equipment and all other instruments innocent of the night’s torture. The cow’s struggling was all in vain, it only helped splattering everyone and everything with blood. Chunks of dead cow 45

and a litter of legs was all that remained after the savagery.

Chorus joined the armed cow, their faces slick with red.

The blood dribbled off their lips as they spoke, “It was all for nothing. Do you hear us? Every pain we suffered, everything we worked for, it all meant nothing.” The axe’s edge was laid upon one of Chorus’ heads. They blinked away the blood stinging their eyes. “The only comfort I have now is knowing that someone has seen the bankruptcy of our existence. Tell them how little our lives meant; maybe then our suffering won’t be for nothing.”

Chorus nodded to his armed friend, and the axe was raised. Face after face was crumpled into a momentary exclamation of pain.

Head after head was crushed into a pasty pulp. Before smashing the final head of Chorus, they spoke one last time, “Will you remember our faces?” The axe raised up and fell down, the wreckage of the head washing off the side of the cow. With Chorus gone, the armed cow went into a frenzy, making short work of the slaughter. The amount of blood seeping inside the shed was redundant.

Then, the armed cow turned the axe upon itself, swinging blindly into it’s own flesh. Accurate and effective slaying was no longer an objective. The self-mutilation ended when the cow was less than a carcass on four legs. It toppled dead to the floor.

Diana was left there in the shed, tied to the post and dressed in a masquerade costume of dripping red. Three piles of cow gore and her husband’s savaged body provided her with company, along with their excessive donations of blood. Various instruments of cruelty cluttered the floor, exhausted with violence. It was abruptly quiet in the shed, which should have comforted her. But Diana’s head was possessed by the screaming question: Will I remember their faces?

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CONTRIBUTORS VISUAL Kay Nyman (p. 1) is a full time freelance artist & illustrator living in New England. Drawing people is her lifelong passion, but she’s also a proud fangirl and will never outgrow the joy of making fanart. Her focus is in traditional art, usually creating with Copic markers and ink. Aside from making art, Kay spends her days trying to keep up with her spunky daughter, drinking tea, and constantly getting distracted by her two cats.

Harley Claes (p. 10) is a Filipino novelist from Detroit, Michigan. She happens to run the Beat-inspired zine ANGELICAL RAVINGS. Pity The Poetics is her first poetry and short story anthology. You can find her at harleyclaes.com Denny Marshall (p. 32) has had art, poetry and fiction published. One recent credit is poetry in Veil October 2018. See more at www.dennymarshall.com.

WORDS Alec Bussott is a college student living in Michigan and an avid fan of horror novels and movies.

Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over 230 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies since June, 2016. He has two collections of short stories, Sand and Rain, that have been published by Clarendon House Publications. His third collection of short stories, Heat, was published by Czykmate Productions.

His YA collection of stories The Tales of Talker Knock was published by Clarendon House Publications. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee. His website is www.stevecarr960.com.

He is on Twitter @carrsteven960.

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Harley Claes is a Filipino novelist from Detroit, Michigan. She happens to run the Beat-inspired zine ANGELICAL RAVINGS. Pity The Poetics is her first poetry and short story anthology.

You can find her at harleyclaes.com Salvatore Difalco is the author of 4 books, including Black Rabbit & Other Stories, a collection of dark fiction. He lives in Toronto Canada.

Gabbie Frulla is 28 years old and lives in Connecticut. She is a graduate of Western Connecticut State University and nearing her second semester in their M.F.A program. She is currently majoring in horror writing and minoring in true crime writing.

When she’s not writing horror stories, she’s living inside of them. She is an avid urban explorer whose passion for exploring abandoned insane asylums has taken her to the most obscure places here on the east coast. She finds such inspiration within the walls of abandonment. She hopes you enjoy the words from the darkest parts of her mind as much as she loved writing them.

Dylan James Harper is a teacher and writer from Sonoma County, California.

Stephen McQuiggan was the original author of the Bible; he vowed never to write again after the publishers removed the dinosaurs and the spectacular alien abduction ending from the final edit. His other, lesser known, novels are A Pig’s View Of Heaven and Trip A Dwarf.

Stephen Sorensen is the local Yarn Witch of Kingston, New York. He spends his free time listening to records, singing to his countless plant babies, and crocheting. His work has appeared in Riggwelter Press and Scarlet Leaf Review.

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GUTS horror zine Š January 2019

All rights revert back to the creators upon publication.