Unbridled by Jesemynn Čačková

Afrail finger pulled down a single venetian blade just enough to reveal paranoid stricken eyes. A quick surveillance of the front yard did little to ease her anxiety, but it was enough to take the edge off. Sheila retreated from the window and placed a large board that fit seamlessly within the frame. There was a little rope attached to it for easy removal when necessary. The natural light inside the home was replaced with cold LEDS as all the windows were boarded up. The interior was abnormally sterile with all surfaces clear of clutter; every item had a designated space. This was Sheila’s sanctuary that provided the only sense of normality in the chaos that devastated her world. This was a delicately weaved illusion that threatened to shatter with each passing second. Regardless of this coping strategy, she knew her grasp on reality was gripped with greasy fingers. Some of it had already puddled at her feet. Once satisfied with the security of the window, she sulked from where she was near the entrance of the kitchen, through the living room, to where she halted at an opaque plastic sheet. The very tip of her nose touched the barrier as condensation of her outward breath produced a foggy blotch. On the other side was a short hallway that madeway to the front door. The intricate characteristics of that room were lodged so deep in her brain it was easy to envision the details as she closed her eyes. Along the wall stood a makeshift coat locker with four oblong cubbies sectioned out. In each hung a painter’s suit and mask with a smaller cubby beneath which housed boots with gloves inside poking out like bunny ears. Above the suits was another cubby that had fresh clothes in white bins with a single picture taped to the front of each one.

The first picture captured a handsome man somewhere on a beach with a country-mile wide smile. It was the happiest she had ever seen her dad. He was forever memorialized in her brain with roaring laughter. Underneath this image in meticulous writing read “Dwayne.”

The bin in the next cubby over was a photograph which completed the previous photo. It was a woman with crows’ feet adorning the corners of her eyes. She looked perturbed yet amused. Sheila knew her mom was happy in this photograph, but she also knew that this was not her mom at her happiest. Dwayne had orchestrated a prank that inadvertently led to a bird shitting on her shoulder. The absurdity of it all had the three of them rolling in the sand howling at the sherbert sunset. Under this image was written, “Barbara.”

Continuing down the line was an image of a woman in bed. She lounged with smooth almond skin that pulled the genuine curve of her beaming smile. It was genuine joy that made home in the sparkle of her emerald eyes. Beneath this photograph were tiny hearts dancing around plushous bubble letters that fashioned the name: Ginger. They

Honorable Mention

The Slaughter by Ry Tuthill

Every autumn in Calamityville, Illinois, an eagerly anticipated massacre takes place. Children swarm wearing grotesque masks, spurred on by parents who not long before them knew this joy. The savages pluck their victims like grapes from a vine, soon to spill the entrails across pristine table cloths. The children gleefully cut open the heads, extracting organs and flinging them haphazardly about. The mess is of no concern to the little beasts. The chosen, limp and lifeless, watch their desecrated kin with upside down smiles, feeling so fulfilled in their predestined purpose. Each is ultimately displayed with their brethren on the tables upon which they were slaughtered, hoping to be the most gruesome.

As the chilling night falls, the children brandish their weapons of choice, commence the Calamityville pumpkin carving festival.

met on the first day of trade school. Sheila loved Ginger, and in her bones, she knew Ginger was out in the ether loving her back.

The fourth and final suit belonged to Sheila. It was only utilized on the rare occasion she left the house. The cubby had no picture, no name, no associated memory. It was as empty as she felt. For twenty years she made the choice to live in the past as she chased ghosts from her broken heart through every precious memory. Under her breath, she counted to ten before she returned to the window to repeat this ritual of mourning. The house was nothing but a glorified tomb for the living. Outside her window stood nearly dilapidated houses on dirt lots lining sizzling asphalt. A nearby dead forest was actively burning in an uncontrolled fire. The smoke filtered the sunlight into an eerie glow of nightmarish rust that suffocated the region. Fresh air and green earth were just stories adults told children.

For Patsy’s sixth birthday, his mother gave him the gift of limited freedom. For a few hours a day he could play in the front yard unsupervised. That’s all Patsy ever wanted. Weeks later, he sat doodling in the sand with a plastic straw he found buried in the dirt. Mid-scrawl, unease washed over his body with the sensation of eyes on him. Without looking he knew it came from the house across the street with a reputation that demanded a wide berth. Adults shared this fear with the children.

Last year he and his friend, Zed, caught her spying on them through a crack in her blinds. In a panic they rushed to Zed’s house and told Zed’s big brother Jim. He was tall, strong, and rugged for a twelve-year-old, but in this new world, there is not much room for childhood.

“Patsy, listen to me,” Jim was kneeling in front of him, his stare so intense it made Patsy squirm. “That’s Screwy Sheila. Hundreds of years ago, her parents died in the final Zeta virus wave. A week later her girlfriend was murdered.” Jim’s nose was only an inch away from Patsy’s now, his voice a near-whisper, “I swear to mars, she came through my cousin’s window and ate both his eyes!” His voice crescendoed into a boom, “He still can’t forget the juicy pop sound they made!” The horror in his face faded to humor. He stood tall once again, “Now, he has to wear double eye patches and uses a pool stick so he doesn’t bump into anything. You want to know the secret to keeping her away?”

Patsy nodded with anguish which prompted Jim to smirk, “Dirt makes her skin boil. You best sleep with dirt under your pillow, Patsy, or she’ll come and eat your eyes too.”

Jim continued with his day unbothered, and now Patsy never sleeps without mounds of dirt lining his sheets.