The Fable Online Issue 10

The Fable Online Issue 10 December, 2015

Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar

Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster

Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors

Table of Contents Haiku (Untitled)

by Denny Marshall ....................................................................................................5 New Bird

by Charles Hayes .......................................................................................................6 After the Ice Cracked on Grathem Pond

by Georgene Smith Goodin .......................................................................................8 A Perfect Day

by Jack Kappelhof ......................................................................................................9 Malleta's Song

by Charlotte Lee ......................................................................................................11 Unblemished Ghosts

by Rebecca Horne ...................................................................................................14 Without and Within

by Ava Dune ............................................................................................................16 An Illegal Marriage

by Bryan Grafton ....................................................................................................21 Dream Demon

by Denise Robbins ...................................................................................................30

Poetry

Haiku (Untitled)

by Denny Marshall Swimming in wormhole Fallout at end of funnel Landing on fables

Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit for cover art is Disturbed Digest June 2015; the other half of the drawing is on the back cover. One recent credit for interior art is Bards And Sages Quarterly October 2015.

One recent credit for poetry is the Literary Hatchet #12. One recent credit for fiction is Night To Dawn #28 October 2015. See more at www.dennymarshall.com.

New Bird

by Charles Hayes

The dusty blue shard of an egg shell, its membrane caught by the sunny trumpet of a daffodil, gently sways in the spring air. Magnified especially for me it seems, an announcement that a new life is somewhere up above. Looking up, my face dappled by the morning sun, through maple leaves with dew aglitter, I see a fledgling Robin chirping down at me. No worm or juicy bug to feed, I move away to cause no tease nor fear.

From away though still quite near, I watch the mother home from tree to tree, to quiet her charge’s chirps, with a frenzied service from her beak. Then off again she goes, for waiting all about, are more meals to bring home.

Returning day by day to where the daffodils once were, not long in time I come to see, the honor that the mother allows for me. Crowding steady on her little peep, until it falls from all it ever had, she lets go of tender care. Righting from the pull of earth, its virgin wings beating so, a new bird lifts upon the wind, and in the maple mate across the way, a perch it finds. Tree to tree and ground to tree, the mother shows her young, until its task is learned beyond just rote, but to the main to always be.

Come the end of spring, the new bird fit to be, I climb and lift its cradle from the maple limb. Spinning seeds like confetti fly, to celebrate the story that this gift will tell. The miracle of birth it will signify as it sits upon my window sill. This Robin’s empty nest.

Charles is an American who lives part-time in the Philippines and part time in Seattle with his wife. His writing interests centers on the stripped down stories of those recognized as on the fringe of their culture. Asian culture, its unique facets, and its intersection with general American culture is of particular interest. As are the mountain cultures of Appalachia.

Flash Fiction

After the Ice Cracked on Grathem Pond

by Georgene Smith Goodin

Dusk had fallen, but Caroline hadn’t drawn the curtains. She sat framed between the panels, fussing over her crossword. The fire flickered onto a decanter and two glasses; hers full, mine empty.

I clutched the steering wheel, practiced forming unspeakable words. Preserving her contentment even a minute longer was my only solace.

I didn’t fear her shooting the messenger, but rejecting him. Subtly. A lifetime of not seeing me, but the harbinger of the end of this life she loved.

Her hearing from someone else was unthinkable. I should be there to pull her close, stroke her hair; offer what meager comfort could be summoned. But putting the truck in reverse and seeking consolation in a six pack would be such a relief. Let someone calling with condolences unwittingly break the news. We would be equal soldiers in sorrow then, not bearer and recipient.

I leaned against the headrest, closed my eyes as if to sleep away our grief. How coldhearted of the witnesses to our tragedy to let me leave that frosty shore alone. Did they fear misfortune was contagious? Or did my stoic posture stifle their compassion?

Tears ballooned in my throat, dribbled onto my cheeks.

I flinched at the knock on the windshield. Caroline’s face loomed through the tempered glass.

“Why’re you still out here, honey?” she asked. “Aren’t you coming in?”

Georgene Smith Goodin lives in Los Angeles with her husband, the cartoonist Robert Goodin, and their two dogs, Toaster and Idget. Her work has appeared in numerous publications that most people have never heard of. When not writing, she is restoring a 1909 Craftsman bungalow with obsessive attention to historic detail. To become vicariously covered in paint, visit her blog, Goodin’s Folly. (goodinsfolly.blogspot.com) You can also follow her on Twitter, @gsmithgoodin.

A Perfect Day

By Jack Kappelhof

I wake up standing perfectly still in a vast landscape, blinded by the bright sun high above. It takes a while for my pupils to contract enough to make out my surroundings. I wish I had my sunglasses, reach into the pockets of my white linen pants and find my aviators. The world around me immediately assumes a pleasant, soft beige veneer.

My bare feet start moving, step by step, seemingly by themselves. The hot, white sand pushes them along. My lungs expand and my pulse goes up. My heart pumps the oxygen-filled blood through my narrow veins and the strength in my atrophied arms and legs suddenly comes back. My tentative pace turns into a firm run. I am in complete control of my body now, my feet circling back and forth in a steady cadence, my leg muscles tight. I breathe in, hold for three seconds, breathe out, like a machine.

The white sand under my feet turns into deep green grass. I run uphill toward the afternoon sun, the old legs still tireless. The dirt road ahead leads me to a farm. No, to the farm. I follow the two gutters of red mud that were carved out by the tires of my dad’s old pickup.

My feet finally stop running when I notice a grey-haired couple standing in the doorway of the old farmhouse, the man’s arm clenched firmly around his wife’s waist. I take my sunglasses off, hoping they still recognize me after all this time. Mon and dad are waving at me, mouthing words to me. They are back together again, smitten almost. My grandparents step out as well, joining the ancestral line-up.

I just stare at them, my eyes radiant in the setting sun’s orange glow, too overwhelmed to return their unwavering smiles. They all bravely ignore the black crows circling above my head.

The next moment, I find myself back in the old living room. The long oak dining table is set, and the guests are all there. My sister, my brother, my nieces and nephews. Even our faithful Saint Bernard walks in again, excitedly wagging his tail to greet me.

After supper, my beautiful young wife walks up to me in a long black dress, carrying white lilies. Her long, grey hair is held back by a simple black ribbon. She is joined by our two sons, who suddenly look so serious and grown-up in their dark grey suits. They stand before me and exchange looks that are not meant for me. Their frowns scare me.

Are they judging my temper, my drinking, that horrible car accident?

Their eyes turn to me again, and finally a collective smile breaks on their faces. My wife hands me the lilies, which I gratefully accept. All is forgotten, all is forgiven.

The sun sets, the lights go out, the farm turns dark and lifeless.

At that moment, the doctors took me off life support.

Jack Kappelhof is a new thriller and suspense writer. His short story The Hunter was recently published in the May issue of “Suspense Magazine.� Jack is currently finishing his first novel entitled Getting Back, which is a crime thriller featuring a Wall Street lawyer who commits insider trading. In real life, Jack is a banking lawyer who works for a big financial institution in New York. He graduated from Columbia Law School. He lives in White Plains, New York, with his wife and two daughters.

Malleta's Song

by Charlotte Lee

The curtain blocking the light from Malleta’s musical score was whisked away. A familiar cacophony of trepidation, excited anticipation, and longing swept through her, and her fingers trembled on the strings of her lute.

Below her, the audience was seated on simple folding chairs, some fanning themselves idly with their numbered paddles. Malleta had known it would only be a matter of time before she found herself on the stand again; the story of her life to be unfolded by an auctioneer.

With each sale, that story became shorter though she had a longer one to tell if they would listen. All the audience could see was a painting, but she could give so much more.

She knew she was beautiful; well executed by Luthiste himself. Her husband had paid well for her sitting, lavishing the spare man with gifts and hospitality for weeks after the work had been completed. Ah, Malleta missed her gentle lover still. Her brute of a husband she didn’t miss at all.

“We will start the bidding at twenty-five thousand euros,” the auctioneer called.

A woman in the third row waved her paddle. Malleta did not like the watery eyes, and the woman’s mouth kept a prim line just as her own maid had. That prim line had gone on to marry her murderous husband after standing witness in his defence. Convincing the wretch that the man intended to do the same with his second bride had been an easy task, and leading her to the right poisons easier still. The foam bubbling from that terrible monster’s mouth still brought a thrill of pride to her breast. Haunting the maid to hysterical madness had entertained on many, many occasions and still brought tears of laughter when she thought of it.

“Is there a bid for thirty thousand?”

A genial gentleman in the back raised his paddle, and Malleta thought of her greatgrandson. He’d been a charming boy, who grew into a steadfast young man only to lose everything with his Jacobite sympathies. The British soldier who’d stolen her from the boy had paid dearly for his pretense at justice. Claiming one heard voices and music at all hours of the day and night in an empty house had led to his dismissal from service, then a slow sink into poverty during which he’d sold her for a handsome price.

“Is there thirty-five?”

A pinch-faced young man twiddled his paddle. Sometime around the coronation of Queen Victoria she’d hung in a fine London house. She had dabbled with making herself visible, and the world had become wide and new again. She felt a lingering remorse for the poor narrow-faced footman who had come upon her and the resident lady of the house. Rather than trifle with the resulting gossip, the lady decided to sell the painting inherited from her husband’s cousin. That had been her first time being fondled in an auction house, though far from her last.

“Will there be a bid for forty thousand euros?”

A sleek blonde woman in the front row lifted her paddle. Malleta liked her least of all and stilled her trembling fingers. The coldness in those light eyes brought to mind the devil worshippers she’d found herself among in France. For a decade, she’d lived in darkness and terror until freed from their clutches by the Nazis. She’d suffered loneliness then. For a decade, she’d been hidden, shut away in a tomb, only her memories for company until her liberation.

“Is there a bid for forty-five thousand?”

The genial gentleman at the back raised his paddle again after the second call for fortyfive thousand. She prayed the other paddles would stay lowered. Battling the temptation to distract herself, she strove to keep her fingers from plucking the tune on the score before her.

Astrid had found her in an auction house not unlike this one, but the ladies still wore dresses then. Lovely, sweet, darling Astrid had been every bit the lady she appeared; her manner gracious and charming with iron at the core of that velvet and silk wrapping.

Astrid would sit and watch Malleta play for hours, her head weaving with the arpeggios and glissandos until she had learned to play the flute. Then together they would play, harmonies twining, the music enough to bring tears to Malleta’s eyes if she been able to cry. Malleta had wailed for weeks after Astrid died, left to continue alone, lost.

“Is there a bid for fifty thousand?”

No paddles moved. Malleta couldn’t keep still, stroking a single string with a fingertip. The soft note was lost to all but the auctioneer who pretended he hadn’t heard it. The silence wore on, stretching her nerves as tight as the lute’s strings.

“Sold to bidder twenty-nine for forty-five thousand euros.”The gavel banged on the podium, and her world went dark again.

For the next while, Malleta was conscious only of movement. The era when she had cared about the passage of time had long since ended; all that mattered was who she could share it with. When the movement stopped she listened carefully. Someone attempted a piano nearby, haltingly playing a tune that needed an unfettered touch. She held back a sigh, keeping a tight check on disappointment. It was possible the player was just learning and, with her help, could unite the love of music with ability.

The genial gentleman hung her portrait above a fireplace in the richly timbered salon. All around her other ladies played, their fingers pressed to flute, harp, and virginal. Satisfied that she was properly in place, the gentleman left, and the sound of the piano fell away.

Whispers rose, feminine all. Malleta peered through lowered lashes at the other portraits fixed to the walls, but no one moved. She let her fingers dance the strings, and her heart filled to bursting when the ladies in the room joined her after the introduction.

Charlotte Lee lives in British Columbia, Canada and has been writing for fun since her teen years. She is a retired accountant with two grown children who have inherited her love of storytelling.

Unblemished Ghosts

by Rebecca Horne I didn’t mean to scare the child. He looked so like Daniel, I couldn’t tear myself away. At the sight of him, my breath caught in mingled terror and hope. It couldn’t be. Yet there he was. I stared until he finally noticed and backed slowly into the display of crackers. His uncertain eyes fixed on mine. Brown, like Danny’s. I noticed then how much closer I had drawn, my feet moving of their own volition, carrying me forward while I struggled to understand.

Those wide, frightened eyes began darting from me to the side and back up. I was hovering over him now, looking down at him. I've never liked that, so I dropped to one knee and, with a shaking hand, brushed his bangs from his face. Danny’s hair always grew so fast. I’d trim it once I got him home.

He pulled from me and muttered something cruel. It was unlike him. Now that I was closer, I saw other differences as well. His cheeks were too round. His arms too muscled.

This was not Daniel. It was worse. It was Daniel as he might have been. Daniel, unblemished. This was an unbearable cruelty.

In raw, wrenching grief, I stumbled backwards and the spell between us broke. He ran.

Only moments later, a woman--his mother, she must have been-- emerged from the next aisle with him clinging to her side. The little one pointed, his mouth moving soundlessly, and then she was waving and I suppose she was yelling, but what she said, I can’t recall.

When he was younger, Daniel once scorned my reading ability, claiming I was doing it all wrong.

“You have to do the voices!” he told me.

“Ok, how about this?” I asked, and began raising and lowering my pitch for the different characters.

“Not like that!” he complained, dramatically throwing himself backwards. He had perfected the art of the world-weary sigh. “You’re making it all goofy.”

By some miracle, I managed not to laugh. “Why don’t you show me?” I suggested.

Stuttering at first, he worked his way through the rest of Harry Potter. He wasn’t so good at the voices either, at first, but he learned. Next it was Narnia. His stutter returned, less choppy, more slurred, sometime during The Hobbit, and Xenocide was his undoing. His

eyes blurred the page which, anyway, trembled in his bony hands. His tongue could no longer form the words.

For a few months, the books became a closely guarded treasure. I was the only one left who could understand him at all, and this was the last shred of normalcy to our lives, until the day he put it down and said simply, “doo dire.” Too tired.

I have known others. Others who were sick and others who died. I know better than to deny a life its worth. But there are times when searching for the positive is to commit utter blasphemy. He weighed 70 lbs then, his head shaved and stitched from falls. By the end, the only expression I saw on him was weariness.

I don’t know who grabbed me. I don’t fully understand why. I don’t know how this perfect boy ended up in my arms, fighting to escape, or how his mother ended up on the floor.

There are so many things I don’t know.

Rebecca Horne is a Jack-of-all-trades living near Seattle, WA with their partner, Amelia. Rebecca can usually be found attempting to revive medieval or ancient crafts though they have not yet managed to convince anybody to let them build a forge in the back yard. When they are not practicing Babylonian cooking or medieval weaving techniques, Rebecca can usually be found working on their asyet unnamed sci-fi novel.

Without and Within

by Ava Dune

This is how I killed them...

Three figures stand behind me: a vampire, a witch and a goblin. They're not real.

The vampire pants a breathless laugh. "Yes, we are."

I focus on what I'm doing. My hands tremble as I strain the teabag.

"You know what day it is? What night it is?" The witch's voice is shrill; long black nails on glass. "The night of monsters."

The vampire leans in close. His not-real breath tickles my ear. "We're here."

I flinch. The teabag jerks from the spoon and splats onto the counter. I pick it up. It's just shy of scalding. Did I take my meds? The bin lid swings open and shut, flashing the gaping darkness within. Yes. "Are you sure?" The witch taunts, her dirty yellow hair straggling about her face. I quickly turn away.

I walk to the fridge to get the milk bottle.

I have to pass the goblin crouched on the countertop. I can't tear my eyes off its filthy feet - yellow, with long clawed toenails, brown with the dirt clumped under them. Hard callouses on the bare skin. I'll need to bleach the whole surface.

No, you don't. They're not real.

The goblin reaches out and carefully traces a scratch on my bare arm.

I jump, and the milk bottle drops to the floor. I grab my arm, but there's nothing there.

It leers.

Shaking, I pick up the bottle.

They're not real.

"Yes. We. Are." Shut up.

I finish making my tea.

The witch is leaning against the fridge now. She has a knife, like the one from my knife block. She's using it to add to the symbols carved into her skin. Her blood drips a thick, gloopy green.

I leave the milk on the counter.

I can't stand to go back upstairs, so I go into the living room and turn on the lights. The warm yellow glow is comforting.

I sink onto the sofa and grab the remote. There must be something on TV -- even ads.

Turning it on, I freeze.

The goblin's distorted features grin at me from inside the screen. Its face is pressed against the glass.

I race through the channels.

From each one, the ugly face stares back at me.

I hit the off button, breathing hard.

A puff of air on the back of my neck.

"So jumpy."

"Shut up!"

The words echo slightly in the empty room.

Not empty, they're here -- no they're not.

The witch gives a shrieking giggle. "Aren't we, Landon? Aren't we? Yes, we are, no we're not." She twirls her hand and a wilting flower appears between her fingers. She holds it out, mockingly. "Would you like to test?"

The vampire reaches out and dips his finger in my tea. "It's cold," he says with false concern. He picks up the mug. "Shall I warm it?" His smile is deadly.

"Shit!"

I vault over the back of the couch and stumble into the dark hallway. The contrast blinds me and I slip on the leaflet left on the stairs and bang my thigh. Up in the bedroom, I turn the lock. I go into the bathroom and find the pills. Count them.

I took them, right? I took them.

The bathroom light spills out into the bedroom gloom. Beams of light flash across the bedroom ceiling as a car passes outside.

A sound distracts me. I look up, and the goblin's crushed nose is right in front of me. I throw myself back with a yell, pills scattering. The mirror warps as the goblin begins to force its way out. Terror grips me, making me fumble with the door. The doorknob jars in my hand as I try to force it to turn while still locked. I manage to unlock it and then tumble out and back down the stairs. My elbow is throbbing in time with my leg. I turn.

The goblin is no longer there.

I need to get out. Ahead, the front door looms. A few steps, and I'll be outside among people. I'll be safe.

"Will you, Landon?" Their voices overlap, waxing and waning like a false tuning. "Will you ever be safe? Only if you kill us." They answer their own question.

"How do you kill a witch, Landon?" the vampire whispers.

"How do you kill a vampire, Landon?" the witch husks.

I look the goblin straight in its filmy grey eyes, its burning purple pupils. "You burn them."

I stand. The hardwood floor is cold. In the kitchen, I find a bottle of oil, a bottle of alcohol and a bottle of bleach. I carry them all to the living room where the vampire reclines on the sofa. I empty the oil over his head. He grins viciously, even as it trickles down his fangs.

The witch gets the wine. I climb four steps up and pour it over her. She dances, stroking her skeletal arms and lifting her hair.

The bleach, I throw over the goblin. It shrieks silently as the corrosive burns its eyes.

I pull the matches from my pocket.

One. Two. Three.

They scream as they burn. They laugh as they burn.

Smoke fills the hall, and the fire begins to spread. Something shatters in the kitchen.

Covering my mouth with my shirt, I fumble with the chains on the front door and fling it open. I stagger down the steps onto the front lawn.

It's quiet, outside. Peaceful. Night.

A few streets over I can hear the faint sounds of trick-or-treaters.

I turn to the house. Smoke pours from the windows, flames lick at the walls. It will reach the other houses soon.

But I've killed them. I'm safe.

I make my way down the street. People begin to flock, to stare. I don't care.

I'm safe.

Three figures stand behind him; a vampire, a witch and a goblin.

They're not real.

Ava Dune is a clandestine writer who is still working on her first series. Once completed, it will be phenomenal, she's sure. In the meantime, she flits from one idea to another and watches them spiral into epic monsters. Her favourite season is winter and her hobbies include writing and cake.

Short Story

An Illegal Marriage

by Bryan Grafton

“You’re lost aren’t you Layne?” hollered Wayne as he cuddled with his fiancee Elaine in the back seat of the ten-year-old bucket of bolts that was a poor excuse for a Packard automobile.

“No, I’m not lost. I’m just doing reconnaissance. Don’t worry I’ll get you to the church on time.”

“That’s code for you’re lost Layne,” declared Elaine his sister in law to be.

Wayne and Elaine had gotten their marriage license that morning at the county courthouse. The courthouse, unfortunately, was in the extreme south end of the county and their marriage was to be at the County Line Church in the far north end of the county. Layne, Wayne’s identical twin brother and best man, had been driving his rusted out, cobbled together, rebuilt 1933 Packard all the rest of the morning over these back dirt covered country roads trying to get them to the church on time. It was a scorching sticky August day and the windows were down. That is unless someone was in front of them kicking up dust, then they were rolled up causing the heat inside to rise to an unbearable level. Layne would then slow down to let the dust settle so that he could see the road and so they didn’t have to inhale the gray powdery silt. After all was clear he would speed up again but he dared not go too fast as the bumps and potholes would send the top of one’s head into the unpadded ceiling of his shock absorber less vehicle.

“I’ll bet Evelyn is already there,” sneered Elaine. Evelyn was Elaine’s aunt but only a few years older than herself and was her maid of honor. “She knows the way. She grew up out that way and went to Sunday School there. We should have ridden with her. I knew something like this would happen. Admit it you’re lost Layne or can’t you do that because you’re a man and men don’t get lost they just do recon,” Elaine taunted while squeezing Wayne’s hand ever so tightly. ”Make your brother stop somewhere and ask for directions dear.”

But Layne kept driving and kept his mouth shut. “Wayne,” growled Elaine.

“Stop Layne. Stop here,” ordered Wayne.

“Here? Here in the middle of the road with nothing but cornfields on each side. Who you going to ask for directions, a fence post?”

"I need to relieve myself.”

“Good idea. Maybe I should go too.”

“Men,” smirked Elaine.

“You go that side and I’ll go this side,” ordered Wayne as he climbed over the barb-wired fence and entered the corn jungle. Layne scaled the fence on the other side of the road.

Elaine could hear corn leaves rustling as the men entered and disappeared into the thick six foot plus tall stalks. Ten minutes later neither man had reappeared.

“Are you both lost now?” hollered Elaine. “You two twin twerps are lost in a cornfield aren’t you? Great. I’m going to honk the horn. Come toward the honking car. I repeat come to the honking car.” Elaine laid on the horn, again and again and after another five or so minutes Wayne parted the corn leaves and reappeared. Still no Layne and he had the keys.

On the other side of the horizon now, a quarter mile or so down the road, a cloud of dust was being kicked up. The hot humid August midwest heat held the dust in place so that there was visible at the front of the dust cloud a black old Ford farm pickup truck rumbling and bumbling, down the rutted road coming straight towards them. All the while Elaine kept leaning on the horn and Wayne kept bellowing for his brother.

The old truck pulled up and sputtered to a stop, the engine letting out a hiss of relief. A tanned, leathery, weather-wrinkled, short, squatty, old farmer after a couple of tries was finally able to get the rusted door open. His bones cracked and his belly jiggled as he stepped out of his tin can vehicle. He slammed the door, but it didn’t catch and flopped back and hit him on his butt. His bib overalls were covered with chewing tobacco stains and his farmer’s straw hat had a sweat stain ring all around where it sat on his bald head.

He pulled out a large red crusty handkerchief from his baggy pants pocket, took off his hat and mopped his brow with it, spit some tobacco juice on the ground and some on himself and said, “Hi I’m C.B. Ain’t this heat a fright.”

He got no response from Wayne and Elaine as they stared at the massive German shepherd glaring at them and sitting obediently on the passenger side of the front seat.

“Don’t you worry about Laddie none folks. He’s a good dog. He don’t bite unless I tell him to.”

A slight sigh of relief came over Wayne and Elaine’s faces. “Hello I’m Wayne and this is my bride to be Elaine and we’re getting married at the County Line Church this morning and we’re stuck here since my lame brain brother Layne is lost in that cornfield over there

and has the car keys,” Wayne spat all that out nonstop and then catching his breath he asked. “How do we get there? To the church that is.”

“Oh, you can’t get there from here. You got to go over there to get there,” responded C.B. pointing off in a general direction across the cornfield.

“Where is there?”

“There is over there, not here.”

“But we can get there from here?”

“From here?”

“Yeah from here to there.”

“Yeah but when you get there you go from there to there, not here.”

“There not here?”

“Here then there and then there.”

“Enough already,” shouted a frustrated Elaine, “Mr. C.B. sir can you guide us to the County Line Church after we find Layne. The dummy has been lost for twenty some minutes now in a cornfield.”

“I can do better than that. I can have Laddie here find him and bring him back. You got a piece of his clothing that Laddie can smell? Get his scent.”

“I don’t believe that we do,” replied Wayne.

“That’s okay. Just show me where he was sitting in the car.”

“He was driving.”

“Laddie boy. Here,” commanded C.B. The dog jumped through the open window of the dangling door and came and sat down on his haunches at C.B.’s side. C.B. opened the driver’s door of the Packard bent over the driver’s seat put his face down on the seat and started sniffing the seat. Then he said, “Smell Laddie. Smell.” The dog obeyed and started smelling the scent of Layne’s trousers that was left on the seat. “Go Laddie. Go find. Bring back here. Go!” The dog bolted forward, came to the barb wire fence, got down on his belly, crawled under, then jumped up on all fours and scurried off into the corn.

“What time you two young ones getting married?”

“We’re set for eleven with Reverend Love.”

“Reverend Love married me and the missus fifty-nine years ago in that very church. Of course, that was the Reverend Lanny Love. Reverend Lonnie Love his son will be hitching up you two. He’s a stickler for punctuality you know so I’d better take you there now.You don’t want that man’s wrath brought down upon you. And you can take it from me that’s the gospel truth.”

“But” C.B. cut Wayne off before he could utter another syllable. “Don’t worry. Laddie will find your brother and bring him back here. You don’t want to be late for your own wedding do you?”

“But he’s my best man.”

“He’s not the best man for the job if he’s lost in a cornfield is he?” responded C.B. while drawing in air between his clenched teeth. “Tell you what. I’ll fill in for him and we’ll get him after it’s all over. Why that cornfield of mine is so big that your brother could have wandered into the next county by now. We can’t worry your guests now can we by you not being there on time. What would they start thinking.”

“No one is going to be there but us, his brother and my aunt,” answered Elaine. “Neither of our folks are coming. They threw a fit and think that we shouldn’t be getting married with Wayne going to basic training two days from now and the war being on and all. And this place way out here is the only place that would marry us on such short notice.”

Then turning to Wayne she pleaded, “He’s right you know. Let’s go, Wayne. I’m fed up with that goofy brother of yours. Let’s go!”

“But he’s scared to death of dogs, big dogs.”

“But nothing,” she shouted back. “So this will deserve him right. Let that humongous dog drag him in. He’s in the doghouse anyway as far as I am concerned. Getting lost twice in one day and this day of all days” C.B. went over to the driver’s door of his truck and yanked it open. Waived his arm and addressing the young lovers said, “After you two, the other door is stuck shut.” Wayne and Elaine climbed in. Seated all three of them rubbed up against each other. “Cozy ain’t it,” chuckled C.B. The engine hiccupped and gasped to life, fired itself up and carried them off down the crusty dusty road.

After a little stretch, they came to an apparently abandoned uninhabitable farmstead.

The house was unpainted and in need of repair. Some of the gutters and shutters were loose and falling off. The front porch sagged. The barns and sheds fared no better and junk machinery and equipment was everywhere rusting and sinking into the ground.

“That’s where I live,” said C.B. pointing with pride to his ‘Tobacco Road’ type structures.

“It’s nice,” lied Elaine. “Say why don’t you stop and pick up your wife C.B.? Wouldn’t she like to be there?”

“Oh she’s already there,” responded C.B. “The church is just up ahead. See it?”

There it was the small one-story white clapboard two roomed, the apse and the congregation room, steepled rural Lutheran Church. A wooden outhouse stood downwind on the property. Across the road from it was an iron gated cemetery with stones marking the graves of the original German homesteaders who had founded this congregation. Next to it was a cute little outdoor chapel surrounded by colorful gardens of assorted blooming flowers. At the front door of the church stood the stone-faced Reverend Love and Aunt Evelyn who smiled and held in front of her a bouquet of those flowers.

C.B. drove the truck right up to the front door and killed the engine. He jumped out and ran up to Aunt Evelyn and gave her a warm down home hearty hug. “Why Evelyn Blumenmuster I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age since you moved to town ages ago. You use to be in my wife’s Sunday School class right here remember. How ya doin sweetie?”

“Why I’m doing right fine, Mr. Pfennig. You know that your wife was my all time favorite Sunday School teacher. But what are you doing here bringing me my niece and her husband to be and where is that fool brother of his Layne?”

“He got lost in a cornfield,” interjected Elaine. “So C.B., er Mr. Pfennig here, came along down the road and saved us. He is going to be the best man instead of Layne.”

“Him best man,” mocked Reverend Love.

“Hi Ruh Ruh Rev,” stuttered C.B. sheepishly.

Reverend Love scowled at C. B. “Let's get started shall we,” he said gravely waving the ensemble toward the church door.”

“Wait where’s your wife, Mr. Pfennig? She should be here.” reiterated Elaine.

“She’s over there,” he said pointing to the cemetery across the road.

“Oh I’m so sorry,” said Elaine.

“I’m not,” muttered C.B. under his breath.

“Let us enter the church,” commanded the Reverend Love.

“Wait, shouted Elaine again. “Let’s get married over there at the chapel across the road.

It’s so pretty with all the flowers, shrubs and greenery, such a poetic idyllic setting. Can we Wayne?”

“What is it?” Wayne asked directing his question to Reverend Love.

“It’s a place for people to go and pray. Do devotions, meditate with the Lord. Where one can be with the Lord. It’s church property. I can marry you there if you wish,” responded the reverend.

“Please, Wayne,” pleaded Elaine.

“Okay,” he said and without further adieu they all crossed the road to the other side.

The ceremony was short and sweet. The reverend knew it from heart and sounded like a broken record reciting his lines. Evelyn snapped the wedding pictures and everyone hugged and kissed, congratulated the newlyweds and then they all trekked back over to the other side to the church and their vehicles. The Reverend Love completed and signed the county marriage certificate and had Evelyn Blumenmuster and C.B. Pfennig read and sign as witnesses.

“Thank you,” said Wayne as he handed the reverend a ten dollar bill to which the Reverend Love replied. “Thank you and bless you, my children. You are now married in the eyes of our Lord. Let no man put asunder the blessings bestowed upon you by this marriage.” Then he took Wayne aside, elbowed him, winked at him and jokingly giggled, “You’re all legal now son so I suppose you want to get back and do legal things. You devil you.” He chortled and left stifling a laugh as he went over to say goodbye to Evelyn.

Wayne then turned to C.B., “Here,” he said, “Is a little something for you kind sir for all your help and kindness.”

“Glad to help,” responded C.B. “But it wouldn’t be right for me to take one red cent for just being a good Samaritan now would it Rev?” he said directing his speech to the venerable reverend. The reply to which he received was a scornful frown.

“But if you insist.” he said wishfully.

“Here’s some two hundred pfennigs for you Mr. Pfennig, I insist,” insisted Wayne as he stuffed two new crisp 1943 one dollar bills into one of C.B.’s cavernous bib overall pockets.

"Thank you kindly kind sir. Now we better hurry back to Laddie and that brother of yours.”

But Evelyn continued hugging and kissing the couple numerous times and constantly repeating that she was so happy for them and then telling C.B. and Reverend Love to keep in touch though she knew darn well that they would not even though they kept constantly nodding their heads yes. Finally, she kept repeating herself so much that she even became aware of it and realized that she was embarrassing herself. She then politely excused herself and left.

“Well, I thought that blathering woman would never shut up and leave. Thank the Lord for small miracles. Everybody into the truck. I got to go get my dog,” barked C.B. The three of them piled in and C.B. fired up his old Ford and off they raced.

There up ahead Layne was visible standing on top of the old Packard waving his arms and shouting, Laddie was on the ground looking up at his tried human prey and barking.

C.B. slammed on the breaks and the truck skidded to a stop kicking up a cloud of dust that engulfed the Packard, Layne, and his captor. Through the self-made hazy cloud, they heard Layne shouting, “Save me. Save me.”

As the dust settled the occupants of the Ford got out.

“What you doing up there, brother?” laughed Wayne. But Layne couldn’t answer. He just kept coughing, gagging and spitting dust.

“Cat got your tongue? Or should I say dog got your tongue?” laughed his brother.

“C. B. this here is my long lost brother Layne returned from the land of corn. Layne this here is C.B. Pfennig. He took your place at the wedding for you and had his wonder dog, Laddie, here save your worthless hide.”

“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you two aren’t the proverbial peas in a pod,” clamored C.B. “Twins eh. Even got on the same suits. I couldn’t tell you two apart to save my life. Reckon you’d like to get down, huh young fella?”

C.B. reached into his front left pocket and pulled out a pouch of Redman Chewing Tobacco. He took a wad from the pouch and rolled it into a ball about the size of a ping pong ball. Then addressing Laddie said, “Good dog. Good dog. Let him down boy. Laddie want a treat?”

“Woof. Woof,” barked the canine as he jumped up and down. “Woof. Woof.”

C.B. tossed the ball of wadded tobacco toward Laddie and the dog jumped up and caught

it in midair in his mouth and wolfed it down whole.

“Prevents worms,” C.B. informed his captive audience of three.

Layne cautiously climbed down. C.B. went up to him and shook his hand and assured him that his dog was harmless. Then the newly married couple explained the rest of today’s marital misadventure to Layne.

“Well all this calls for a drink,” roared C.B. and he went over to the back of his truck, lowered the tailgate and started rummaging around through all the tractor and machinery parts, feed bags, buckets, miscellaneous tools and scattered rusted junk until he uncovered a covered up moonshine jug. “To Wayne and Elaine and Layne,” he bellowed, popped the corncob stopper and took a big old sip. “Prevents worms,” he belched handing the jug to Wayne.

“Prevents worms,” repeated Wayne taking a couple of big old sips himself and handing the jug over to Elaine. She repeated the ritual and then it was Layne’s turn. This medicinal celebration continued until the jug was drained.

“We better get going dear,” said Elaine. “We need to get that marriage certificate back to the County Clerk.”

C.B. grabbed the twin closest to him and whispered to him, “Don’t worry none Layne about missing the wedding. You didn’t want to be a party to an illegal wedding anyway did you?”

“What do you mean illegal?” came back the response.

“Well, I just happened to notice when I signed the marriage certificate that the marriage license was issued by Ford County. Your brother got married in Kindle County. The County Line Church ain’t called the County Line Church for no reason. It’s because it's located on the County Line Road in Ford county. When they crossed the road to the outdoor chapel on the other side they got hitched in Kindle County. License is no good for Kindle County, only Ford. Ain’t legal. Don’t you worry none. I won’t say anything. That will be our little secret Layne old buddy.”

And my little joke thought C.B. as he stumbled to his truck, slurred his goodbyes to all and drove off in a cloud of nauseous gas fumes.

I best keep this to myself thought Wayne as he waved goodbye to his fleeing former confidant C.B.

Bryan's stories have recently appeared in The Fable Online, Frontier Tales and Romance Magazine.

Dream Demon

by Denise Robbins

Two weeks after my boyfriend was killed, he started visiting me in my dreams.

The first dream was so very sweet. Painfully sweet. In the dream, he came into my room and shook me awake. He took me by the hands and led me outside. The night air was crisp and perfect, the moon was a full, bright orange against a brilliant neon green sky.

His eyes were black in the shadow of the dusty moonlight.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I said.

“I will never leave you,” he said. “This is all there is.” A chill crept down my spine and back up into my neck and head, making me dizzy.

He pulled me in close. I buried my head into his chest. And we stood there, gripping each other, for minutes or hours or years, as the world spun around us, and the wind whipped against the trees, and petals of lavender roses started to fall, piling up at our feet, piling up higher and higher until they covered us completely, and we stood there, ensconced in the rose aroma, lost together in the petals in the night.

When I woke up, I was alone in my bed, gripping a pillow so tightly it was starting to pop out of its pillowcase.

The second night, I was already awake in my dream, waiting for him, when he walked through my bedroom door.

He leaned in to kiss me. I leaned away. “No,” I said. “It will hurt too much in the morning, to know this is not real. I wake up and it’s like I’ve lost you all over again.”

“You’re wrong,” said he. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll be losing you. Don’t tell me to leave. I am here. There is nothing more real than this.”

“This is a dream.” My head was spinning.

“Your heart is beating. In this dream, mine is too. Feel.” I put my hand on his chest, but before I could feel the beat of his heart, he leaned in again to kiss me. This time, I didn’t pull away. “Oh,” I said, giving in. Locked together, we tumbled into a black hole that formed in the middle of my mattress and somersaulted deep down into the earth, landing miles beneath the surface, entombed in warm darkness.

I began to live for these dreams. Waking life was a hindrance, something to get through

until nighttime fell. Together at night, we walked the span of the Earth. We rode on the backs of dolphins and elephants, we learned how to fly. We went on dinner dates with vampires for waiters. At night, together, we soared.

During the day, my heart was heavy and flat. I was exhausted, but I never let myself take a nap, for fear I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep that night. I stopped going out to parties, for fear of a booze-induced dreamless sleep. I would go home early every evening to clean my room, to make it presentable for the night’s visit. Eventually, my friends stopped making plans with me. I didn’t mind.

The dreams were everything.

Then, one morning, I woke up with blood in my mouth.

In the previous night’s dream, we were kissing so deeply his teeth turned into daggers.

They ripped at my tongue, lashed at the side of my mouth. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t care. I bit him back. “I want more of you,” he said. “I want all of you.” We were lying in the middle of the desert, with no water to drink, drinking each other’s blood instead. A pride of lions paced around us in a circle, watching, but never approaching. The biggest one, a fierce creature with streaks of black in his mane, roared so loudly the ground started to shake. Rocks tossed around into the air, and the sand mushroomed into a cloud around us, protecting us.

The blood, in a small pool on my pillow that morning, tasted like steel.

The dreams became more dangerous every day. It was the most exciting time of my life.

At night, we wrestled in the middle of an Icelandic crater, and jagged rocks ripped our clothes and tore our skin. During the day, I had to wrap my arms in bandages and wear long sleeves at work, even though it was summer. I threw away my cotton bedsheets and bought new ones made of plastic, so they wouldn’t get stained with blood.

At night, we swam in the blistering hot pool of a volcano, cooled by the blue moonlight while stanzas of Mozart tinkled in the night sky. In the morning, I had second-degree burns all along my back. I rubbed my skin with aloe and painkillers. I purchased silk clothing that wouldn’t rub against my burns.

At night, we sprinted to the edge of a 200-foot cliff at the edge of a snowy mountain range. Spotted snow leopards raced behind us, but we outpaced them. Holding hands, we dashed through pine trees to reach the cliff’s edge and leapt into the air, just to feel what it was like to fall. We dropped through the air head first. My stomach fell into my feet, the wind whipped my hair straight back. I closed my eyes and jutted my chin

forward. When I opened my eyes, a raging river was just before me. Then everything turned to black.

This time, when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed.

“You’re awake.” I recognized the raspy voice of my roommate. She grabbed my hand.

Behind her thick glasses, there were tears in her eyes. “You’re finally awake.”

“How long have I been … not awake?” I asked.

“Three days. Your boss called me, you didn’t show up for work … so I checked in on you, but I couldn’t wake you up. I called 911.”

That night, back at home, I took two large sleeping pills before I went to bed. I was hoping for a dreamless sleep. I was frightened.

But I woke up hours to the now-familiar state of a dream: everything buzzed and hummed with meaning. I was in a haze of fatigue, heavy and sleepy. The room was dark, with only starlight peeking through the window to give things shape. Fuzzy grey fog infused my bedroom. I looked to the door and saw a dark shape and the glint of an eye.

It was him, standing in the dim light, shrouded in fog and shadow.

“Are you trying to keep me away?” he asked softly.

I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even open my mouth. I was so tired from the sleeping pills, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open.

He started walking towards me. But as he walked through the grey fog, his features started to blur. His eyes melted down his face and into his neck, then diminished into nothing. He reached out his hands, and his fingers turned to wisps and disappeared.

Then, his arms. His body slowly degraded, turned into wind, and vanished.

The pills, somehow, had worked. They protected me from him.

I fell back into black sleep.

The next night, I again took two large sleeping pills. But once again, I woke up in a foggy haze to see him standing at my door, with eyes that looked so sad it made my heart ache.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked sadly. I opened my mouth, but could not find the strength to speak. I shook my head very subtly, motioning, no.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he said, and again started walking towards me. He was crying.

The fog pulled his lips wide open, pulling them up and over his entire face, peeling back his skin, peeling back his muscles and veins, until his head was just an empty, smiling skull.

He kept walking.

The fog pulled at his arms, stretching them wider and wider, 20 feet wide, until they snapped off and shriveled up into nothing.

He kept walking.

The fog pulled him downwards, and he started shrinking until he melted into the floor and disintegrated.

I gave myself back to sleep. Relief.

The next night, I took three sleeping pills. When I woke to the dream, the fog was so thick it was nearly solid. Of course, he was standing there. This night, I was so overcome with fatigue from the pills, I couldn’t even twist my head to look away.

He was taller than he had been before, stronger. His head nearly reached the ceiling, his shoulders were massive. His pupils were dilated so his eyes were completely black.

“I told you, I’m not going to leave you,” he said angrily.

He strode quickly through the fog, pushing it aside before it could affect him. Just before he reached me in my bed, my vision went black.

In the morning, the inside of my legs and my plastic sheets were covered in blood.

I called in sick and took a scalding hot shower. I sat on the floor of the bathtub while water pelted my skin for nearly two hours.

I had to end it. I would die if I didn’t.

When the blood was washed away, I got out of the tub and came up with a plan.

That night, before I went to sleep, I hid two knives underneath my pillow. One large butcher’s knife, one smaller steak knife. I didn’t take any pills, so I tossed and turned anxiously for several hours before finally falling asleep. When I awoke to the dream, he was sitting on the end of the bed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I believe you,” said I. “But you know this has to end.”

His eyes filled with shadow. “That’s not true. Why should this ever have to end?” He

leaned over, pushed the hair out of my face, and kissed me. I fell back into my pillow and reached my right hand behind my head.

Underneath the pillow, I felt the cool, hard handle of the butcher’s knife. I wrapped my fingers tightly around it and pulled it out slowly. He was still kissing me, unaware of the knife I was holding by my side.

“You don’t want me to be alive,” I murmured. “You’re killing me.” I heaved the knife and buried it into the back of his skull.

He sputtered, then grabbed my arm holding the knife. I let go; it was still stuck in his head. I pulled up my knees to my chest and kicked him away. I reached back under my pillow to grab the smaller steak knife and sprinted for the door.

As I ran, the ground flew under my feet. With one stride, I was in my street, with the next I was a mile away. Stride over the river. Stride through a forest. I looked back; he was behind me, running, knife still stuck in his head, one stride behind. Stride over an ocean.

Stride to the bottom of a mountain. Stride to the top of a waterfall, which led over an impossibly high cliff. The same cliff we leapt from together, those days ago.

There was nowhere else to go. The roar of the waterfall vibrated in my bones.

I turned around to face him. He stopped running ten feet away from me and walked slowly over. I moved to the left, circling away from the waterfall, to put him between me and it. On top of the cliff, in the thin air, we paced around opposite sides of an invisible circle. Despite the knife still stuck in the back of his head, his face was calm and still as a rock. I could see the mania in his eyes, though.

I leapt forward, reaching him instantly, and thrust the steak knife into his chest. He kept standing. “You can’t kill me,” he said. I pulled the knife from his chest and stabbed him in the gut. “I’m already dead,” he said. I stabbed him in the eye and twisted the knife. Blood spurted from his face, landing on my cheek.

“You’re not even real,” I said. “None of this is real.

“You need me to exist,” I said, as I pulled the knife out from his eye. It transformed into a massive sword.

“But I don’t need you. Not anymore.”

I swung the sword at his neck, and with one clean cut, removed his head.

His headless body still stood uneasily. I put my hands on his chest to push him backwards into the waterfall, ready to say goodbye once and for all.

One of his arms grabbed me and pulled me with him.

We tumbled through the air, falling just in front of the icy cold waterfall’s spray. With one last heave, I pushed his body into the fall, and it was blasted to bits by the torrent.

I fell, graciously without being pulled into the waterfall’s cascade, and I knew I was safe. I was leaving my past behind, free from its seductive grasp, free from its horror. I was zooming into the future, a clear path, a wide open space. I felt tears flowing down my face, thick warm tears of loss and joy.

I opened my eyes as widely as I possibly could, and spread my wings.

Denise Robbins is a writer living in Washington DC, which is simply infested with smart, motivated, wonky, annoying, strong, beautiful, ambitious people. Life is nice.

Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed this issue as much as we did. Til next time!

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