The Fable Online
Issue 17 July 1, 2016
Sarah Kedar Editor-in-Chief Readers Heather White Katelyn Barbee Steven Fischer Tim Tanko Mari Noller
Cover image by Rob de Vries. CC License. Š2015-2016, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors
Table of Contents The Thread by Charles Hayes ............................................................................................................................4 Amna by Hamdy Algammal ......................................................................................................................5 A Pile of Salt by Yen Ha ........................................................................................................................................ 8 As Nature Directs by K. Marvin Bruce .......................................................................................................................11 Lesson Plans by Geraldine McCarthy ................................................................................................................20 With Kindness by David Henson ..........................................................................................................................23 Woodland Creatures, Come and Play by Elizabeth Barron ......................................................................................................................26 The Mud by Joseph Stephens ......................................................................................................................41
The Thread by Charles Hayes At every turn along the coastal street, surrender far beyond, eyes flash an open depth. A look of patient wait, for futures yet to come, or lips that line a somber glow, they see me pass. Up, down, or along a plain of calm, we are on the move. Gray running to silver, my hair throws spears of light, to shine with glints of raven locks. Just before a wrinkled fruit, my face spreads a bit as well, but with chains of age, not so deep. Still, the thread that runs about whips a snag and catches me. Old and new, each a bit to teach, spin the track for all to see. Where I once was is no memory, but a present sight to be. And how it goes beyond, is more than any dream. I am. And we go on. To pass another way and remain the same, no sight to behold, no spectacle to be, would set a stage born bare, no thread to snag, no show to muse or entertain, no step a touch still light. Warm seas kiss verdant shores, while most watch along the walk, and white sand pulls the thread to sea, Standing with another, bathing in the Sea, our locks of silver show a tinge of orange. Like two lighthouses, afire by night and day, we watch the sunrise, to paint the thread. Beyond those of youth along the walk, their faces to the sea, an old man’s radio blares the news. Though in a tongue that I do not know, but one that has a thread, I can listen too.
Charles Hayes, a Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part-time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, Unbroken Journal, CC&D Magazine, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and others.
Amna by Hamdy Elgammal But who was to say, really, that what I was here to do was in any way wrong or unjustified? It would teach a lesson. It would make a point. Points matter. They establish boundaries and teach other members of society particular — Well, aside from the ‘point’ thing, the situation was really clear when you thought about it. There is a certain contract one signs up when one belongs. She has broken this contract and there is a consequence to that. One that is quite well-understood and very wellaccepted and that is older than both of us. And if Dad was here, really if Dad was here, he would not object. He would have done this himself! Blessed be his soul. Good man, Dad. He was a man of God, everyone loved him. Well, most did. I think Dad was the first one who tried to help her early on. But even as a small girl, she was so — no, not defiant. The word is arrogant. She was arrogant. Because kids are allowed to be a little defiant but they cave in. They listen to reason in the end. They learn the value of good things like honor and family. But not her. And he would tell her, the man would tell her, Amna, so help me God I will fucking kill you one of these days and Amna why in God’s name are you joining the church choir if you are a fucking Muslim and generally like, Amna, just who the fuck do you think you are? And you know he would not really mean the killing thing but his eyes, his eyes like little saucers through his thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows but she would still — she would just not listen. She would sit and take it all in quietly and not reply and just be there like I am in control and there is nothing you can scare me with. The sheer guts. Okay, yes, I really understand this might be a bit too much but really, this was not her choice to make. She knew that very well. She did it knowing full well the consequences.
Now I can sit here in the old Camry in front of the house she and the Asshole both live in (the thought of him with my sister. My sister!) and debate whether this is a good idea or not but, come on: I already have the stuff in the passenger seat. If you were me and you understood the Asshole, understood the exact type of nobody good-for-nothing scum no one would like as a viable partner to their sister, or any loved one for that matter, if you understood that and the entire situation as well, wouldn’t you do the same? If you understood how much she hurt, how purposefully she did all of it, just how selfish and — There is no worse disappointment than being betrayed by those you love. I really can't kid myself anymore that I might end up not doing this — I am going to do it. It is decided. But then why do I feel this reluctance? That same feeling like standing next to Spikey while he was being put down in Dr. Parson’s Pet Clinic when I was thirteen and watching Spikey’s big shih tzu eyes like Help Me, like I Love You, Why Do This To Me? and his tail wagging then slowing down and then his little nose (that was just always warm and moist and sniffing around the basil bushes in the Callahan's next-door’s garden) just ceasing to move. Like a little periodic wave slowly decreasing in frequency and getting attenuat — okay, shut this thought down. Just — forget Spikey, leave the car. Lock it and hear the little beep. Whoops forgot the bottle. Go back for that and then hear the little beep again and then walk to the door and ring the bell. Now there is the Asshole in boxers and socks and two-day-old beard. Scrawny and weak and white with no chest hair, the Asshole. Punch him in the nose (knuckles hurt more than expected with the gloves on) because really — this is sibling business. Step in and hear behind me the Asshole like, What are you doing? Like What the fuck, Zahir? Like This is private property, leave us the fuck alone Zahir! What — what is that in your hand? Is that — Jesus fucking Chri —
Walk into the living room and find her sitting on the couch in these obscene stretchy yoga pants and revealing top and her face with that same 15-year-old-girl defiance. Then she is standing and with that dumb smile on her face then realization and like, Stop, please don’t do this! Zahir, I’m your sister, no! The Asshole has tripped behind me and stands up but too late! I unscrew the cap and there is liquid just flying and it hits her square in her face like slow-motion. Then the smell of hot flesh fills up the place and she holds her hands to her face and it is like her face is on fire from the smoke, and her green earrings are just dissolving now and each with a little smoke trail going up from her face like a small genie will appear above her head. Her face disappearing inwards and she takes one hand out and the face is already starting to look like holes on a bowling ball or like a great deal of melted chocolate ice-cream and slowly going out, out into the air and all around are these red, crushed screams like the time she was circumcised when she was four. Then I am closing the bottle and going for the backdoor because things are done now. Just done. Like God’s justice is done. Move on now.
Hamdy Elgammal is a software engineer based in Berkeley, CA and a hobbyist writer. In the evenings he studies writing at the UC Berkeley Extension and adjusts a nonexistent beret while discussing writing and art in local writing groups.
A Pile of Salt by Yen Ha
He can’t stop reading the news, even though his vision blurs from the watery film forming over his eyes when he comes across a photo of the dark pink carnations that his girlfriend prefers, one of many bouquets in the heaps of flowers covering the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. He doesn’t allow himself to watch videos, the horror he finds in black and white sentences terrifies him enough. When the internet explodes with gunfire and suicide bombs, he is on a crowded subway car headed downtown at the tail end of the week. In the lobby of his building, a woman getting her mail says, Did you hear? It’s horrific. He doesn’t know what she means but nods sympathetically anyway. When he gets to his apartment, he shrugs off his coat and throws down his bag, pulling out his phone. Terrorist attack. Hostages. Automatic guns. Bombs taped to bodies. Friends having dinner, pealing with laughter over a table scattered with the detritus of veal chops and half empty wine glasses until gunshots fly through the interior. When he reads about bodies lying abandoned where they fall, framed by the backdrop of people at the start of their weekend, he shudders. Without turning on the lights, he steps out of his shoes and moves towards the couch. The glow from his screen illuminates the darkness of the living room. He reads about the evacuation of the stadium, how the first explosion causes the president to be hurried away, even as the soccer match continues. He scrolls through international news feeds, refreshing the screen as more news arrives. The dampness in his eyes wells into drops when he comes across people checking in online, marking themselves and their partners as safe. Safe as in alive. His girlfriend is away for work, safe on the other coast. He tries to tell himself to stop reading, to get up off the couch and make dinner, but he cannot. The information keeps coming, pulling him into the stories unfolding. Tears pour out of his eyes, dripping onto his fingers, which cannot stop scrolling. He wakes up the next morning, on the couch, startled to feel sunlight on his face. His hand has dropped to the side, still gripped around his phone. Breaking news
notifications cover the front screen, but they are only updates to news that already broke. While he slept his tears solidified into trails of crusted saline. He rubs away the layer that formed over his eyelids to reveal a shot of an alleyway behind the concert hall littered with bodies. A man lies face down in the same red plaid jacket his girlfriend bought him for his birthday last year. Tears course anew down his face. You look terrible. Gabe says to him at work on Monday. I think I’m coming down with something, he replies, pulling out a tissue for his nose that won’t stop running. Well, don’t give it to me. Gabe backs away from him. His girlfriend returns that night to him weeping noiselessly on the couch, huddled in the jacket she gave him, staring into his phone as the updates turn analytical in the aftermath. What’s the matter with you? Why are you crying? Have you been reading the news? All those people. Dead. They’re dead on the other side of the ocean. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. You don’t even know anyone there. You have to stop looking at your phone. I can’t. I can’t look away. Well, crying isn’t going to save anyone. They’re already dead. He doesn’t stir, letting the wetness cover his face and run down his neck, dampening his shirt collar. She tells him again he’s being too emotional and needs to stop but he doesn’t hear her. He can’t explain to her how his gaze is drawn to the stories pouring in of each individual life. A life that could have been his. At work on Tuesday Matt says, You look like shit. You should go home. I’m fine, he says. But he’s not fine. People are dead and his girlfriend is mad at him. Alerts
pop up in the right-hand corner of his computer. The death toll keeps rising as they identify more bodies found buried in rubble. They also find a black car, a visa, and an illegal entry. He looks up. An hour has passed. He rubs his eyes. He should go home. He drags out a comforter from the bedroom. He digs up an extension cord from the closet and plugs the phone into it so it will reach him on the couch. A video accidentally starts playing. A man at the concert hall describes the sound of firecrackers. He turns it off but it’s too late, the tears he held back at work flood his eyes. Through a wet gaze, he reads about the man his age, who, upon hearing shots, hit the floor, pulling his girlfriend beneath him. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears. It’s no use. Wednesday Matt brushes by him in front of the cafeteria and doesn’t acknowledge him. His eyes have swollen up to slits. He can barely see. Thursday he calls in sick. Salt has formed over his lids in a thick layer. Dried tears trail down his face, forming canyons and gullies of crystallized saline. He can no longer open his eyes. He tells his phone to read him the news feeds. He listens to a remote female voice recount the terror of people in the neighborhood barricading themselves in their apartments, away from the bloodied bodies covering the streets. The tears, no longer constrained to his eyes, overflow from his pores. They soak through the red plaid. When he doesn’t show up to work on Friday, his coworkers contact his girlfriend. She lets herself in silently but no one is home. On the couch, next to a crumpled up comforter, lies a pile of salt and a phone flickering with news alerts.
Yen Ha is a principal of Front Studio Architects in New York City. Every day she draws with an ultra fine point Sharpie and eats gummy bears. Her first short fiction was a winner in the Urban Omnibus Common Shares writing competition. Her second piece of fiction was published in the Chicago Quarterly Review. Her drawings and makings can be found at www.hh1f.com.
As Nature Directs by K. Marvin Bruce The unmarked grave at the edge of the cornfield looks worn and lonely. I was supposed not to notice it. Surrounded by a crude, black wrought iron fence and mourned over by gnarled, leafless oaks, it cries out an unending melancholy that stays with me long after I've seen it. Under deep, gray skies that offer only the comfort of a chill wind and an eerie wave through the empty branches, I find the blanket over my lap too thin and the questions in my throat too heavy. The world outside my window has somehow grown more mysterious and sinister since seeing this nameless stone. The only remembered location on my tour of the farm. Without revealing the identity to me, my mother whispers through embarrassed tears, “It’s only as nature directs.” I’ve lived nowhere but this farm. The grave lies to the west, and my room faces east. Hiding there my whole life, I never knew of it. Sheltered, I suppose, is the word most used for my condition. Like a shadow-play the scene resides in my head; a woman in labor’s distress at home—in this very room—straining mightily to give premature life to what seems unlikely to survive. Although I was there I can’t remember when Dr. Addick returned me to her waiting arms with the dreaded words, “I’m afraid he’ll always be an invalid.” Memory is an unfaithful mother. Country doctors don’t have access to incubators and fancy city-folk medical implements. I wasn’t expected to make it to this point in life, so I consider myself a survivor. These awful scars attest to that. “Badges of honor,” mother timidly calls them. Father won’t even acknowledge that they’re there. Parents don’t like to talk about it as if I’m some embarrassing failure marked on the ledger of their misdeeds. An error in the very book of life. I left mother unable to conceive again, and father mutters about the family farm falling to an invalid. The work of three generations comes down to this. Years of disappointment. Invalid. The word sounds ugly and coarse. As if I’m somehow not legitimate in the human
race. A race I can’t run. Not that I know of any different life. Frailty feels normal to me. The outside world has come to me in the form of books. Wearing their determined, defeated expressions, my parents work the farm and care for their own child who entered their lives as a disappointment. And they leave me books. Only books. But I can feel there’s some other presence here. I notice the gray edging into father’s beard. Although he attempts to conceal it, the acidic worry of what happens when an invalid inherits a working farm worms its way into his consciousness daily. I can’t prepare my own meals or empty my own pot. I’ve tried to get myself out of bed, but each time I end up in a helpless heap on the floor, only to be excoriated for trying to determine my own fate. I should just accept what I am. Read my books. Accept my fate. I should by independent by now. The shadows in my room are too sticky and black; the way the light plays about in the morning is too quickly replaced by the long, slow descent into night each day. Inexplicable sounds, lonely and tortured, waft up to this second-floor room. My mind is trapped in a body barely capable of holding it, and yet, this impoverished flesh has a grip that can’t be relinquished. Until I saw that lonely grave, all the years of my life were lived in this room. I didn’t know the dead shared this farm with me. Among the books mother brings I discover it. A forgotten volume misplaced among the others. I pull it out curiously. No title on the spine. A pebbly black cover over stiff cardboard. This book was once blank. Her diary. I’m fascinated by her writing. Although this isn’t cursive, it’s florid, and takes me some time to learn. Familiar words, however, are the key to those less familiar, and before long I’m drawing a narrative from her meandering lines. I hide my treasure when she enters. My hands don’t permit me to write, but I have slowly mastered typing, if mother will roll the paper in for me. Soon she loads a roll of butcher paper. She never reads the butcher paper. She doesn’t wonder what’s on my mind. I write in scroll. It’s embarrassing to read her discovery of my pregnancy. I can’t conceive of a time I didn’t
exist, and the thought of having flowed through my father’s hidden parts disturbs me deeply. Not that she goes into that level of detail, but my imagination is far from handicapped. Nine months, she muses, is a long time. Can they really afford a child? The farm barely supports the two of them. I read what I was never intended to see. A child can be an accident. A bout of foolish rutting gone wrong. I didn’t even demand her whole nine months. From the dates, I work out that this was fourteen years ago. Not having normal distractions, I concentrate on reading. Mother checks in on me every couple of hours, but I can be so deeply into a book that I don’t even notice. I get lost in books. At night, however, I think I can hear that grave beckoning to me. The wheelchair in which they provided me my only tour of the farm is downstairs. I cannot reach it, still in the wispy fragments of nighttime, the unmarked grave conceals my true nature. How do you relate to a parent whose diary you’ve read? She revealed her murkiest thoughts to the purifying medium of private paper, not knowing that during her life, her own child would see. In my case, would never have access. What do you say to a parent after that? “Who’s buried in the grave to the west?” I ask, although I now know the answer. It seems a natural question. Her face takes on a haggard look, as if her stomach is being attacked by acid. I can feel her gloom in the unlit corners of this room. “Oh, Theo, that was so long ago. It’s nobody that you knew.” “What do you suppose it’s like? Being buried? “You shouldn’t think of such things. What have you been reading?” “I read what you and father bring. There’s a man called Poe.” I have read Poe, but my information is more personal than that. Who, in my condition, wouldn’t think of death? “You must be lonely here. We’re so far from any neighbors.” Her sad smile reflects a
melancholy that she projects, helpless to change what life has served her. I know that she can’t bring others in to see me. My deformities frighten even me. Although no mirrors are permitted, on dark nights in the flashes of lightning, I can see the reflection my window shows. I see, and I shiver. Her diary has only added to my shuddering. I know what must happen. The books are my friends. Their authors have been my playmates. After this I notice more cheerful stories appearing among the titles offered, as if I’d violated some ancient taboo. I only say what I’m thinking. This may be something I shouldn’t do. How much trouble, my books suggest, people get into by saying what’s on their minds. I don’t know where Janine came from. She showed up in my room one day, standing stock still in the doorway, just like deer are supposed to freeze when they first notice you. Her hands were held together in front of her, on top of a white stick. She wore a white dress. Her eyes were closed. Then I noticed mother in the shadowy hallway behind her. “This is Janine. She’d like to visit with you.” I’m not sure I want visitors, but I’ve read enough books to know that saying so would be rude. “Won’t you come in?” I mumble. I have never seen someone about my own age. She appears young, and vulnerable. Perhaps mother doesn’t think I’ll figure out they’ve brought in a blind girl simply because she won’t be able to see me. I’ve already reasoned out that I repulse people. “What’s your name?” she asks, feeling hesitatingly with her stick, getting too close to my bed before she seems to sense it and turns aside to find the chair mother sometimes occupies. “Theomiseo,” I admit. “You may address me as Theo.” “I’m blind,” she says as she sits tentatively, delicately in the worn chair with its rusty brocade cushioning rubbed smooth. She has straight hair so blonde that it’s practically white. Although she doesn’t open her eyes, her face is pleasant, if a little gaunt. The skin around her eyes is dark, like when a person doesn’t sleep enough. The weariness it imparts to her face only makes her more attractive. Her nose is straight and sincere. Her mouth settles into a ready smile that I can’t understand on someone who’s been denied
such a basic human right as sight. “I see.” My little joke is just a touch cruel. I know if she could see, she’d never stay in here with me. People deserve to be punished in that way. “Your room smells like books,” she says. She’s right. The books have outgrown their cases and have started to climb the walls in great stacks where the shelves end. “I like to read.” “You’re disabled.” “Mother told you.” “No. If you weren’t you’d have tried to have comforted me for being blind by now. Will you read me a book?” I look over at the door to ensure that we are alone. “Okay.” I don’t like Janine at first because she reminds me someone my age can walk and leave this room whenever she wants. But she’s patient and mature, and she likes my books. We learn to trust one another. “Sometimes I get angry about being born this way,” she comments one day. Her voice is even, but a frown distorts her pleasant mouth. “It’s a funny idea,” I say, surveying my own deformities—the ones I can see, “that your body is something you own.” “How do you mean?” she challenges. “Of course, you own your own body!” “Do we really own anything? Did you choose to be born blind?” “Of course not!” “Don’t get angry. I’m just suggesting there are things about our bodies that other people
know that even we don’t. It’s a funny owner who doesn’t know what he has. Like when the doctor comes and tells you about some part of your body you can’t even see—how it has a disease or something. It’s inside of you, but you didn’t know about it. If you really owned it, couldn’t you choose to rid yourself of it?” “I don’t like to think about it.” She’s blind. I know things about her that she doesn’t know. I now know that I can get inside her. Just like the writers of books get inside me. Janine returns regularly. I read to her. We don’t do much else, both isolated in our imperfect bodies. Separated while being together. “What’s it like to be blind?” I ask. She stiffens. But she decides to answer like I knew she would. “Well, you can’t see, but you don’t know what it’s like to see in the first place. Everybody else does, though. And they make it difficult for those of us who can’t. It’s dangerous. I have a stick and I hear real well, so I can get around indoors, mostly.” Once she opens up, she tells me what I want to know. “What’s your disability?” she asks sharply when she finishes. Her normally pale face is flushed a little red as if I’d asked her to undress. “I can’t walk,” I say. “It’s more than that,” she observes, matter-of-factly. She exposed herself. I now have to reciprocate. I wonder what it’s like inside that sweet head of hers. The distant thunder pounds as the shadows grow from west to east, dimming my view a shade or two closer to night. I can see her trembling as I finish my description of myself. I know she’ll be back. She has found someone who can understand her world. “Do you want to hear a true story?” I ask her after we’ve grown accustomed to one another.
“Yes, please.” “It’s kind of scary.” “I’m not afraid.” “Okay. If you’re sure.” The air in my room feels humid with tension. I feel a frisson of danger escape from Janine as she leans closer to catch my voice, which has dropped low. "I have given birth to a monster." “I thought you said this was a true story.” “It is. You’ll have to listen a bit to understand. I’ll start again. ‘I have given birth to a monster. Early in the pregnancy, I knew something was wrong. An expectant mother should be happy, but a heavy drape of depression has settled over me. Thinking back over the months I carried him, I recall dark and merciless days followed by sleepless and haunted nights. Storms were frequent—terrible storms with wicked lightning and endlessly echoing thunder. Clouds seemed constantly lit from within from an excess of malevolent energy. And I could feel evil in my very womb.’” I stop. “Is it too scary?” Janine shows no fear. She props her cane against my bed and sits back to listen. I turn back some pages and continue. “‘Absalom and I have no option but a birth at home. The hospital in Breck is hours away, and the roads will be impassable in January. He has birthed livestock before, and how different can a human child be? Dr. Addick will set out at the onset of labor, he assures us. He keeps a horse ready for such visits. When he last called, he affirmed that I carry twins. “‘The joy Absalom and I shared was diminished on Dr. Addick’s visit today. I had never heard the phrase “parasitic twins” before, and I wish to God I never had! This very thing that is happening within my own body repulses me, but I am powerless to stop it. Absalom quietly asked about termination, but Dr. Addick advised that it might jeopardize my life as well.’”
“What are you reading?” Janine demands. Her sunken eyes appear as darker hollows than I had noticed before. “A book of true stories my mother brought me.” I bump her stick and it falls to the floor, rolling under my bed. “I don’t like it,” she protests. “It’s almost finished—it’s just a short story. Don’t you want to know how it ends?” She tenses as if she’s ready to stand and call for my mother. I appreciate her shiver. She does not, however, find her feet. I turn forward to the page on which I started. “‘A parasitic twin consumes its companion in the womb, sometimes emerging, so Dr. Addick informs me, with what appear to be additional limbs. It is not unnatural, he assures me, but merely an unintentional process in the womb, little understood. With proper nurture and care, the child should survive to term, and perhaps even to adulthood. To terminate, in any case this late, would be no different than murder. Absalom refuses to speak of it. His only words are, “As nature directs.”’ “‘The birth was horrific. Absalom assisted manfully. Our son—our sons were born, yet only one survives. He has assimilated the limbs of his twin. I am weak, but I must scrawl these thoughts, should I fail to recover. As Absalom swaddled our son’s thrashing limbs, in horror I glimpsed in his hands the severed head of his brother. When Dr. Addick arrived and administered the laudanum, he assured me that all of this is a mere accident of reproduction. There can be no will on the part of a child in the womb. It is only as nature directs.’” “How do we truly measure the intention of the unborn?” Janine, crying out, drops to her knees, frantically reaching for her stick, far under my bed. Her body will muffle my fall, and I will do as nature directs.
K. Marvin Bruce has studied in western Pennsylvania, eastern Massachusetts, and southern Scotland. His fiction has been published in Calliope, Jersey Devil Press, Dali’s LoveChild, Defenestration, Deep Water Literary Journal, Danse Macabre, and Exterminating Angel Press: The Magazine. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Lesson Plans by Geraldine McCarthy My temples throbbed. I had stayed up until two a.m. finalizing lesson plans. Scanning the classroom, I noticed Geoffery twirl the pencil in the sharpener, his head bent, deep in concentration. I had put him at the back, next to Amelia, who threw sideways glances at him, when she wasn’t frowning over her sums. The contrast between them was striking; him dark-haired and sallow-skinned, her blond and pale. Some children wandered from their seats. I left my vantage point at the top of the room and crouched down to correct Rebecca’s maths. Suddenly I heard a piercing cry behind me. I shot up and looked around. “Amelia, what’s the matter?” I asked. It was my first day in my first job. “It’s Geoffery,” Amelia sputtered, “he stabbed me!” I fixed him with my most withering look. He met my eye and gave a little smirk. “Come here, Amelia, let me look at your arm.” The little girl got up from behind her tiny desk and came up to me, pouting and looking at the ground as she walked. “It’s ok. There doesn’t seem to be much of a mark. Is it sore?” Amelia nodded her head, her lips downturned, fresh tears forming in her eyes. “Ok, let’s get you a sticker for being a brave girl.” I put the butterfly sticker on Amelia’s pinafore and told her to sit on the teacher’s seat for a little while. They had never mentioned pencil stabbings in teacher training college. “Geoffery,” I said, “This is the third time this morning I have had to speak to you. Come with me.”
He took his time getting up from the chair. There was still the hint of a smirk about his mouth. “We’re going to the principal’s office.” A hush fell over the class. I nodded to the teaching assistant, opened the door and marched down the hallway. Geoffrey sauntered after me. I knocked on the door. “Come in,” a voice said from within. I entered, Geoffrey in my wake, and we sat on the visitors’ chairs. “Is there a problem?” Mrs. Murphy asked, looking up from the swathes of paperwork which covered her desk. “Yes, well, there has been a nasty incident,” I said. There was a moment’s silence. “I did nothing, Aunty,” Geoffrey piped up, shooting me a look. My jaw dropped. I managed to rearrange my expression into neutral. “That’s not quite true,” I said. “You hurt Amelia and she was very upset.” “Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” Mrs. Murphy said. She began to stack her papers and looked pointedly towards the door. I waited a moment. “Well, sorry for disturbing you,” I said, rising from my chair. Mrs. Murphy nodded and began filling in a form. I walked down the hallway in silence, Geoffrey by my side. When we reached the classroom door, he looked up at me and stuck out his tongue. “Were they troublesome?” I asked the teaching assistant, who wore a strained expression. “No, not at all,” she replied, “but I think that’s the inspector’s car outside.” I went to the window and saw a gray-suited, gray-haired man alight from his car and pull a leather briefcase from the back seat.
Retrieving the bulging folder of lesson plans from my desk, I hugged it to my chest and cast my eye around for Geoffrey. There he sat in his little chair, cradling the pencil sharpener in his tiny, tiny little hands.
Geraldine McCarthy is Irish and lives in West Cork. She has just begun to dabble in creative writing. She is particularly interested in flash fiction and short stories.
With Kindness by David Henson The other day I watched a man raise a laser to his head. Just as he was about to push the button, an Enhancer materialized. It took the weapon, smiled and said, "At your service, sir." Then it turned to me, saluted, and teleported back to its monitoring station to wait for the next death alarm. Hundreds of years ago, we created the Enhancers to improve our lives. Now they won't let us die. They allow us to eat nothing but a blue sludge that makes us immune from all disease...and continuously nauseous. The air, yellow and foul from the chemicals they've released into the atmosphere, prevents cellular decay but gives us all migraines. And almost everyone suffers panic attacks from the non-stop air raid sirens—to them, beautiful music to enjoy as we pass the time. Endless time. We can't make them understand. I think I've found a way out. I have three power spheres. Just one of the marble-size balls will fuel an Enhancer for a year. How I got them, the things I had to do, I won't speak of. But I have them, and I know a guy who knows a guy ... who will give me something even more precious in exchange. # Not what I expected. Seated across the table from me in the dingy room is an Enhancer. I think. More human-looking than most. Male-ish features. He wears a long blue robe. His eyes glow red, and there's a small golden tube behind his ear. He has the longest arms I've ever seen. "You've never seen one like me, have you?" "No, I have to admit. What kind of Enhancer are you?" "I have..." -- his eyes glow more brightly, and he raises his long arms theatrically -"evolved." He must be a production error. I wonder how he slipped through. The Enhancers are always so careful in recreating themselves. But can he give me what I need?
"Call me... The End," he says. "Are you in possession?" He's really off. I remove the spheres from my pocket. "I have these if that's what you mean." "Three! Call me...The Beginning." He raises his arms again. Only my migraine and nausea
keep me from laughing.
He hands me two small vials, one with blue liquid, one orange, and I hand him the three power balls. He drops the spheres in a glass beaker of silver fluid. They dissolve, sizzling, tiny fireballs dancing across the surface of the liquid. The Enhancer's hands tremble as he takes the tube from behind his ear. He puts one end of the tube in the beaker and the other in his nose and breathes in the fluid. His eyes glow so brightly I think they could set his face on fire. "Evolving!" he thunders. He starts to lower the tube back into the beaker. "Wait," I say. "What am I supposed to do with these?" I hold up the two vials. He pauses, one end of the golden tube still in his nose as he talks to me: "Drink of the blue, the alarm cloaked for you. Drink of the orange the...the ..." He's stumped and so am I. "The blue solution will keep the Enhancers from detecting your death alarm," he finally says hurriedly "and the orange one will kill you. Now," he raises his hands high in the air again, "leave me." He doesn't have to tell me twice. As I reach the door, I hear him roar behind me -- "Evolving!" Outside, I pull the stopper from the vial of blue fluid and throw the liquid down my throat. I can't believe this is happening at last. I unstop the vial of orange fluid, put it to my lips, and—and an Enhancer appears and knocks it out of my hand....Fraud! Demented, crazy, stoned fraud! I should go back and...and what? My head throbs as I suck the foul air that loves my every cell. I fight another wave of nausea riding in my throat. The sirens rise to a pitch I haven't heard in decades. Beside me, another Enhancer materializes. It snatches an electroblade from a woman's throat then salutes her. She slumps to her knees, wailing, and pulling her hair. The Enhancer turns to me and points up toward the sirens shrieking above us. "Lovely isn't it, sir?" it says, then disappears.
David Henson lives in Peoria, Illinois with his wife and their dog, who loves to take them for walks in the woods. He plays boogie-woogie piano and has previously published poetry in a variety of small press magazines.
Woodland Creatures, Come and Play by Elizabeth Barron I still don’t know how they got into my room. No one ever believed me, but it’s true. I never even left the window open. My roommate, the blonde one with the pigtails and squeaky voice, made it very clear that she had poor circulation in her feet, so under no circumstances were the windows to be left opened. My other roommate—redhead, samurai sword—must have opened one after Pigtails and I went to bed. When I woke up that morning, my room was empty. I swear it. Everything was normal for a minute or so. “I just can’t stand having any windows open,” said Pigtails. Her fluffy pink slippers burned holes in the floor as she paced around our common room, while Samurai sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening her knives and arranging them in a neat oval around her. “And I can’t have the doors making noise when you close them, I can’t have music playing, and I can’t have anyone touching my things at all. If you both would just listen to me and do what I say—” Samurai held a jagged-edge Bowie knife up to the morning light. “Just a little sharper,” she grinned. It was only the second week of college, so this was going to be my typical morning for the foreseeable future. I went back to my bedroom, trying not to make any noise as I shut the door, and there they were, waiting for me. “Good morning, Princess!” chirped a bluebird, waving its wing. The bluebird was perched on my plastic floor lamp, the one I’d bought on sale. A yelloweyed owl had wrapped its talons around the back of my desk chair, and gray and brown mice were scampering up and down the faded blue carpet. A flock of robins and sparrows were building nests in my bookshelf, and a gray squirrel and a fluffy white bunny were huddled together in my beanbag chair.
My mom had warned me that a first-floor dorm room would have some drawbacks. I’d pictured the occasional spider, not a petting zoo. A spotted fawn trotted up to me and bowed its head, as all the creatures chimed in unison, “Good morning, Princess! Won’t you play with us?” “Um—no,” was all I could think of to say. “Your stepsister seems awful mad,” said the bunny, looking warily towards the door. “She’s not making you clean, is she, Princess?” said the squirrel. “What? No, she’s not my stepsister—you need to go back to where you came from,” I said. “Outside—out!” The fawn nuzzled my hand with its head. “Will you sing us a song, Princess?” “Oh no, no singing,” I said. “Just leave!” I ran to open the window, tripping over the mice, who squeaked, “Excuse us, Princess, so sorry Princess!” “See? It’s nice outside, good day to be in the forest,” I said. “Now get out!” The animals stared at me, tilting their heads innocently and blinking their huge eyes. “She clearly needs our help,” said the owl. “We do apologize for being late!” “I hopped as fast as I could,” said the bunny. “What strange hair you have, Princess!” said the bluebird, hovering in front of my face. “Such strange hair!” chirped the birds, diving in swooping circles around my head. “So thick and curly!” “It’s—high-maintenance,” I said, batting at them. “I slept on it funny again. Go away!” ###
I guess I was having the typical college freshman’s adjustment issues even before the talking animals showed up. I’d hoped a school in the middle of the woods would be good for me, after the pressure cooker that was my high school in the city. When I first got to college and saw the big fall trees circling my dorm, like giant protective arms, ancient and peaceful, I assumed the people would be equally welcoming. Then I met my roommates. Pigtails’ crying jags on the hour—and tantrums on the half-hour—paired with my Samurai’s sideways smile whenever she pulled out her throwing knives were not exactly conducive to a calming environment. And try as I might, and I did try, really, I hadn’t made any friends yet when the animals came, so there really wasn’t much for me to look forward to after class and work except for going into my bedroom, shutting the door—as quietly as possible, of course, especially if it was near the half-hour—and watching old Disney movies, my default comfort food when I’m lonely. Maybe that summoned them or something, I don’t know, I was afraid to ask. ### “Shall we dress you, Princess?” said the squirrel. “Where’s your armoire?” “We could make you a new dress!” squeaked the mice. “These rags aren’t fit for a princess!” “Hey, these jeans are only—a few years old,” I said. “Back off!” “Now, dark-haired princesses look good in green,” said the bluebird, raising his wing to his beak like a human hairdresser. “It should be made of—silk! No, taffeta!” “It should have a train, and a tiara,” said the squirrel. “Made of silver!” “I have class. I have roommates. You have to leave,” I said. “And I don’t want a dress, I have a hoodie, I washed it a couple weeks ago, I’m fine, just go!”
I slumped down on my bed and pulled on my sneakers. The squirrel tried to tie the laces for me and I stared him down. He bowed his head and said, “Excuse me, Princess,” and ran back to the beanbag chair. “Princess? Why are you so sad?” said the bunny, hopping onto my knee. The other creatures chorused, “Yes, what’s wrong, Princess?” “I’m freaked out,” I said. “I’m not sad.” “Oh, but we can see when our Princess is sad,” said the owl. “You will tell us what’s wrong, won’t you?” “Please tell us, tell us!” squeaked the creatures. “I’m going to lunch before my classes,” I said. “And when I come back, you’ll be gone, okay?” I pulled on my ratty red hoodie and shut them in my bedroom without waiting for an answer. Samurai was leaving too, with her sword sticking out of her backpack. Pigtails was gearing up for her eleven o’clock sobbing jag, with a box of tissues primed and ready in her hand. “Well, if you two are going to lunch,” she said, “I guess I’ll go too, I’m sure plenty of my friends are already at the dining hall, even though none of them invited me. I’ll just have to find out what their deal is...” I made my way to the dining hall with my hood up and my shoes untied—I had gotten so wrapped up in my staredown with the squirrel that I’d forgotten to tie them. I had to wait for a long time to get my card swiped. Everyone had a friend or a group to chat with in the line except me. I stared at the bulletin board advertising clubs and teams I could never imagine myself joining: “College Cheerleading?” “Oboe Appreciation?” My mom told me that college was the place where you met the people who would come to your wedding and your funeral. It was the place where lifelong friends go to find each other—but I had no idea where to look for them, and I was positive that no one was
searching for me. “Princess?” whispered a tiny voice, right in my ear. “Oh no,” I said. The squirrel had stowed away in my hood—I hadn’t even felt him, my hair’s so thick and heavy. He crawled onto my shoulder and said, “Perhaps I could be of assistance to you, Princess.” “Stop talking, just stay hidden,” I said. The squirrel wedged himself back into my hood right as I got to the end of the line. His tail might have been sticking out a little, but the card-swiper didn’t notice. He said “Just you?” with the same bored expression he’d had for everyone else. I wandered around the dining hall for a while, looking for somewhere to sit. I wasn’t the only one alone—plenty of people had music players in their pockets, or a magazine sticking out of their bag, and I felt a little better. I wasn’t that different after all, just another kid with their hood up and something secret tucked away for company— something with a tail, but still. Pigtails had beaten me to the dining hall—she was sitting at a crowded table in the center of the room, where she was deploying the reserves of her eleven o’clock tears on a group of girls dressed in pink from their hair ties to their flip-flops. “I called you twice, but you didn’t answer,” said one girl, drizzling pink salad dressing over all her French fries. “We figured you’d meet up with us, it’s no big deal.” “Well, still,” sobbed Pigtails. “I’m starting to think nobody cares about my feelings!” Metal sliced through the air behind me, followed by the roar of cheering boys. Samurai was standing in the middle of a table, surrounded by fellow sword enthusiasts all dressed in black. They were taking turns throwing oranges at her like softball pitchers, and the whole table cheered as she spun around and halved each orange in midair. From the remains on the ground, it looked like she’d already dispatched a whole tree’s worth. One guy shouted, “Now try it blindfolded!”
“Do I smell oranges?” said the squirrel. In the far corner of the dining hall, a couple of girls were sitting at a smaller table, reading quietly to themselves. They looked like they could be my kind of people. “I’m going in,” I said. “Courage, Princess!” “Shut up.” I went over to the table and said, “Hi, is anyone sitting here?” One of the girls kind of looked like a librarian, with tortoiseshell glasses and bobbed brown hair. She narrowed her eyes at me but said “Hi” back, so I sat down with my tray, hoping no one was allergic to pet dander. The other girl didn’t look up from her book, but Librarian snapped hers shut and said, “So, you have a subculture yet?” “Uh, what do you mean?” I said. She sighed like I had just told her I was illiterate. “Well, everyone’s chosen their subculture by now, haven’t they? Are you a theater nerd, a slacker, vegan, jock? Etcetera, etcetera.” “She’s a princess!” hissed the squirrel. I spoke too quickly, trying to keep anyone from hearing him. “I don’t know, I like, uh, reading and, you know, going outside, and watching movies. I’ve been watching a lot of Disney movies lately, the older ones—” Librarian rolled her eyes and sniffed just like a librarian would, “Ugh. Disney gives little girls such unrealistic expectations of men.” “Disney gave me unrealistic expectations about my hair,” I said.
The silent girl laughed, but Librarian did not, although the corners of her mouth rose just a little, once she studied me for a second, and saw that my hair just doesn’t work. If the bluebird could figure it out, surely a reader could. “That’s funny,” said Librarian. I felt a wave of relief for the first time since I’d arrived at school. I’d found a friend, maybe. I wondered when it would be appropriate to start trading books and secrets and hair-styling tips. How much time would have to pass before it was appropriate to ask if I could be her roommate instead? “What’s your name?” Librarian started to say—just as she saw the squirrel in my hood. He had smelled the cookies on my tray. The look of horror on her face rivaled that of any Disney witch. ### I left without saying a word, and speed-walked to class as fast as I could. The squirrel didn’t even realize I was angry—he clutched the side of my hood and said, “Faster, faster!” At regular intervals during the lecture, the squirrel crawled onto my shoulder and whispered, “Might I trouble you for another cookie, Princess?” Luckily, it was a psychology lecture during which half the class slept and the other half checked text messages, so no one saw me hissing, “No, I don’t have any more, shut up.” When I got back to the dorm, the creatures had cleaned my bedroom. I guess I should have expected that. All of the clothes I’d left strewn on my bed were neatly folded and put away, my desk and the open windowsill had been dusted, the holes in my jeans were all patched and sewn— they’d even plumped up my beanbag chair. “Hey, you found my rubber band ball,” I said. “Thanks.” The squirrel crawled up onto my desk and studied the rubber band ball, bouncing it back
and forth with his tail. “What an unusual contraption!” he said. “Princess, your stepsister with the yellow hair is very strange,” said the owl. “Don’t let her see you,” I said. “Just be quiet. Wow, you even folded my socks—” “She talks about you, Princess, I can hear her real good,” said the bunny, wiggling his ears. “I don’t think she likes you.” “I took this from her bedchamber when she wasn’t looking,” said the fawn, who had something soft and fuzzy in his mouth. He dropped the teddy bear at my feet, and all of the creatures screamed. The birds flapped their wings in fear, knocking books and papers off my desk. The mice ran under my bed, while the bunny whimpered and dove under my blankets, and the squirrel covered his eyes with his tail. “A compatriot of ours, that she has killed and stuffed as a trophy,” said the owl. “And only an infant bear, at that. She must truly be an evil witch. You are in great danger, Princess.” “This is a toy,” I said. The owl shook his head, “Be wary, for she will drink your blood and steal your breath, she will wait until you are asleep—” “And then she’ll cut you up into little pieces,” said the bunny, peeking out from under the blanket, “and she’ll put you into soup and eat you up!” “Eat you up!” squeaked the mice. “Make a gown for the ball out of your skin!” said the squirrel. “Oh my god.” I sat on the floor and slumped against my bed. “I’m sorry, Princess, I couldn’t get a token of the stepsister with the red hair,” said the fawn, as he snuggled into my lap like a cat. “Her bedchamber was locked.”
“Hey, she has a sword. Don’t mess with her stuff,” I said. “Don’t mess with anyone’s stuff, just stay in here.” “A sword? Is she a knight?” said the bunny. “Um, no.” “A prince charming?” squeaked the mice. “Definitely not.” The fawn looked up at me with giant eyes. “She’s not a hunter, is she?” “I don’t think so,” I said. “She just likes knives.” “Do you know any wizards or friendly fairies who could help you?” said the owl. “Preferably someone well-versed in combat.” “Or who’s real, real big,” said the bunny. “Like a giant.” “Nope, no friendly anything,” I said. “I’m all alone here. I really am.” The fawn tilted his head up at me, and big fat tears rolled from his eyes. “That’s so sad, Princess,” he blubbered. “Don’t you miss your mother?” “Have you considered leaving?” said the owl. “Flying for friendlier skies?” “I’m on scholarship,” I said. “The best one I could get, and I thought being in the woods might be nice ...” “Oh, but the woods are very dangerous, the most dangerous place of all,” said the owl. “But a princess can’t be expected to know that.” ###
Every night, I made sure my window was shut tight and locked, but almost every morning, there were more of them. Extra mice and birds arrived, then chipmunks and raccoons, a family of beavers, even a skunk—the squirrel blamed the bluebird for letting him in. A turtle arrived who spoke only Spanish, he called me Princesa and gnawed on my books, and then something big and smelly nested under my bed. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but it growled when I tried to investigate. I was starting to get frustrated. Midterms were upon me and it was hard enough balancing school and work with hiding the increasing number of talking animals from my roommates. It helped that they weren’t really animals—they required none of the cleanup of real animals, anyway. Luckily, Samurai was usually out having fun with her sword-loving friends, while Pigtails liked to invite all of her friends over, each one bringing a new box of tissues, and then lock her bedroom door behind them. One late night, I’d finally had enough. I think it was the beavers trying to eat my bedframe that set me off—either that or the skunk deciding to nest in my sock drawer. “What is wrong with you?” I screamed. “Why won’t you just leave? And you—those books are expensive!” The turtle hung his head. “Lo siento, Princesa.” “I. AM NOT. A PRINCESS!” I screamed. The creatures scattered to the corners of my room and hid without responding. I turned off the lights and went to sleep. ### When I woke up in the morning, my hair had been straightened and combed and a new green hoodie was waiting for me in my closet. They must have done it while I slept. “She’s awake, she’s awake!” cried the creatures. The bunny hopped up and down and the bluebird waved its wing. The owl flew over to me with a mirror in its talons. “Wow,” I said. “The hoodie fits perfectly.”
“Well, of course,” said the bluebird. “We are professionals!” “Look what else we made you, Princess!” said the squirrel. He held up a tiara made out of paper clips and silver gum wrappers, and the birds flew it up and settled it on my head. I was so touched that I took the squirrel with me to the dining hall again. Librarian and her silent friend were in line at the salad bar. I got in line behind them, hoping that Librarian might notice my hair or my new hoodie, and we could start a conversation and then a lifelong friendship based entirely on the incredible abilities of my woodland creatures. In ten years, I would be the maid of honor at her wedding, and my animals could take care of all the arrangements. I waved at her, and she did that little librarian sniff in my direction and spun away—but her silent friend stopped and said, “Nice headband. Very do-it-yourself,” before trotting after her. “I knew it should be silver,” said the squirrel. # I went back to my room after class, optimistic even in defeat, and started handing out extra cookies to all the creatures—until I heard Pigtails stomping across the common room, bellowing, “WHERE’S MY HAIR STRAIGHTENER!” “The witch, the witch!” cried the creatures. All the animals tried to hide under the bed, but whatever was nesting there growled, and they shrieked in unison and ran under the desk. I tried to lock the door, but it was too late—Pigtails barged into the room, her hair flying in all directions like she’d just licked an electrical socket. “You took it, didn’t you?” she said. “I knew it—” “Engage!” cried the owl, and the woodland creatures attacked.
The birds dove at her hair while the bunny kicked at her ankles, the raccoons clawed at her legs, and whatever was under the bed emerged just far enough to bite her fuzzy slippers. The squirrel threw the rubber band ball, and the skunk—well, the skunk did not to hesitate to defend me in the best way he knew. “Fight for the Princess!” cried the creatures. “Claw her, bite her! Gouge out her eyes!” Pigtails shrieked at the same pitch as a smoke detector, holding her nose with one hand and swatting at the birds with the other. “Stop, stop—you’re going to hurt her!” I said. The creatures grudgingly obeyed. Pigtails blew some feathers out of her face and noticed something sticking out from behind the bed. “You stole my BEAR?” “Uh, they took it,” I said. “I’m not sure which one, but it definitely wasn’t me.” “What are they even doing here?” she said. “Are you pre-vet?” The owl fluffed his feathers and said, “The princess requires our company in her time of loneliness. Be gone, witch!” “They’re just—company,” I said. The turtle hid inside his shell and the bunny covered his face with his ears. “Oh, you’re lonely?” said Pigtails. “I’m lonelier! I don’t have any little animals helping me get dressed every day!” “I actually don’t let them do that—” “Do you know how long it takes me to get ready in the morning?” she said. “People in this dorm are so inconsiderate, always asking if I really need both sinks—I could use the help more than you! It’s hard enough without you stealing my things!”
Samurai entered without making a sound, her sword drawn over her head. The creatures that weren’t already hiding screamed and ran for cover. “Heard yelling,” said Samurai. “Oh, animals.” “Excuse me, I’m talking,” said Pigtails. She threw her slipper in frustration, and Samurai sliced the flying fluffy slipper in half without blinking. The bunny’s jaw dropped, as pink fuzzes landed all around him. “Uh-oh!” he said. “Nice bunny,” said Samurai, licking her lips. “Look, everything’s fine now, let’s just—go back to our rooms, okay?” I said. “Here’s your hair straightener, sorry about that, good night!” “Oh, whatever,” said Pigtails. “Get rid of them!” Needless to say, people were called, forms were filled out, it turned out my green hoodie had been cut from Samurai’s green bedsheets, and I was forced to banish the woodland creatures back to the forest. They cried and whimpered and begged me not to send them away, and as much as it pained me to hear their cries, I stood my ground. My scholarship depended on it. “You have to go,” I told them. “You don’t belong here.” The creatures reverently bowed their heads and sniffled back their tears, except for the squirrel. “Neither do you,” he whispered. As dusk fell, the woodland creatures flew and hopped and climbed out my window, and headed towards the trees. The turtle was the last one out, with a mournful “Adios, Princesa,” as he clambered over the sill.
“Come with us, Princess,” called the creatures from the grass. “Leave this awful place!” I shook my head and covered my ears. Pigtails grinned smugly while Samurai wedged the window shut with a machete. I watched the creatures through the glass, distorted and shapeless, as they disappeared into the forest as quickly as they’d arrived. “Hmph,” said Pigtails, flicking away a stray feather. “I hope you’re planning to clean all this up.” ### Every day, I eat alone, and every night, I fall asleep to the sound of the owl hooting, “Sweet dreams, Princess! Won’t you come with us tomorrow?” Every morning, I wake up to birds chirping and a dozen little voices squeaking from the other side of the glass, “Come and play with us, Princess! Please come with us!” Before classes end, I have to fill out a form for where I want to live next year, with the names of the roommates I want, and the dorm we’ve picked out. Everyone around me has made friends with the people who will be at their graduation parties, their weddings, their funerals, but I am still alone. Since the drama of the fall, my roommates have ignored me, and I figure they’re going to live with their own friends next year. I haven’t seen Librarian or her silent friend in months, and the voices from the other window are starting to quiet down. I leave the blank form on my desk and put on my green hoodie, pulling the hood up over my tiara. I open the window and climb out over the sill. Even though it’s nearly summer, there is a chill in the air, crisp and inviting, and the light of the moon makes a path towards the trees, just for me. Fireflies buzz around my ears in a welcoming chorus, and tiny voices cheer as I duck under the tree branches and follow the woodland creatures home.
Elizabeth Barron lives in the dark, football fan-infested forests of Ann Arbor, Michigan, where one often runs into befuddled college students and the occasional turkey vulture that believes it’s a dinosaur. She has a degree in creative writing from Oberlin and an MFA from Hamline University. She and her partner have one dog and three cats, but none of them ever offer to help with the housework.
The Mud by Joseph Stephens
The forest fluttered as crows ventured out for the evening, and began their raids of discarded flesh. The sun set, which casted a bright shadow over the valley as haze rolled up from the river bed. The bank covered in deep chocolate colored mud, raced up to the grassy plain above. Inside the pit, surrounded like a blank dark canvas, a mouth opened like a clam. Vicor took a deep breath and wheezed. His chest heaved and rose, cracked the sod, and created deep ravines above his chest. Then he blinked. Two bright pearly white eyes revealed his position. “They’re gone,” he said. “I don’t hear the horses.” He sunk his hand into the mud, turned and twisted as if it were hard butter. His fingers touched the cold of his sword, which dripped with the wet dirt like a rotten branch. Vicor wiped the blade clean with his off hand and flung it to the ground. With the sword as a cane, he bent over and heaved himself upright. He gingerly knelt then stood on his good leg. He reached for his thigh and examined the cloth spun around his knee. He held it tight and winced in pain. His amputated leg, the one lost in the prior skirmish, left him in no condition to fight. The blood congealed with mud, a maroon tint to the tourniquet. He blinked his eyes and flashed his teeth. The wound stung and he knew he would not last long. Vicor waded through the mud, with labored effort, his foot sank deep and became a victim to the soggy bottom. He pulled it out with a sloshing sound, took another step, and sunk right back. A hole emerged, no larger than a coin in the mud beneath him, then immediately disappeared. He bent forward, sunk a hand down, and cupped his palm near the opening. He pulled the dirt up, like swaddling an infant, and held before him the head of a woman. She coughed. "Quiet," Vicor said. "Your brothers. They’ve left, but may have camped beyond the ridge."
He helped the woman up. She spat muddy water and wiped her face. She blinked with beautiful mud battered eyelashes. Her hair dangled knotted behind her back like a plastered statue. She groaned. "They will not harm me,” she said, “but your leg is bleeding. Let me clean the bandage.” Vicor withdrew and stepped back from the woman as she reached for the bloody rag. "There's no time for that," Vicor said. "We have to move." He grasped an arm around Chantae's ribs and lifted her. She stood and brushed mud from her body. Vicor marveled at her stunning silhouette. He wished to bathe with her and hoped for a different time. "Come," Vicor said. "We'll take shelter in the woods." He held her for balance and the two trudged through the suffocating trench. Vicor heard a loud crack of a stick break in the distance. The two stopped and stared at the forest like deer frozen with fright. They heard voices paired to torches, which burned and danced in the night. "There’s no time. Get down," Chantae whispered and pushed Vicor back in the hole. “They won’t hurt me.” She took care to shove an arm full of mud to cover his body and then to mask his face. She performed the best she could as the hiding job was shoddy and less than perfect. The world became silent as Vicor laid in the muddy tomb. He wished he could watch the men in the forest. He also desired to lay with Chantae and hide together rather than apart. That is what worried Victor the most, the separation and knowledge he could not protect her. Vicor heard muffled voices. While the words were not clear, he understood their intention. The caravan of men stood by the river’s edge and continued their quest, the search for their wayward sister. They approached. With eyes closed, Vicor sensed the light and understood a torch was to his side. He could feel the mud shift near his head as men waded through the mud. His heart nearly froze as Chantae would be confronted.
"Look what I found," a familiar voice said. Chantae cried, "No, let go of me." Vicor sensed a struggle and imagined as Chantae got ripped from his side. The man laughed and told Chantae to stop kicking. Vicor heard a slap and the struggle ceased. "Where's your lover?" The man asked. "Don't make me cut the answer out of you." "He left me," Chantae said. "I don't know. He said he would return." "The fool," the man said and slapped Chantae again. "I suppose we'll just have to sit around and wait for him. What do you think we should do in the meantime, eh?" Vicor heard cloth tear as Chantae's shirt was torn. She whimpered. He wanted to move. He heaved his chest in panic and a burst of energy. Yet with his lesion and body in a weak state, he stayed. Vicor wanted to rush from the grave and come to Chantae's aid. He wanted to help her, but he couldn't act. For both of their safety, he had to remain hidden. The brothers, after all, would not harm Chantae, their own kin. They pursued Vicor, the one who must be slain for he betrayed the trust of their family. "Knock it off," another voice said. "What are you doing to her? Leave her alone." "The spoils of war. She has made her allegiance clear, and it is not with us," the man replied. “If she wishes to protect this swine, then so be it.� To Vicor, Chantae was no spoil of war. He loved her deeply and desired for her to be his wife. In this moment, he knew the best course of action was to remain hidden if they both wanted to live. "Kill her," the brother said. "We have our orders. Find the scum and kill him too." Vicor flinched. He must resist moving, yet every muscle in his body tightened and he wanted to flee. He told himself this was a trick, a way to reveal himself out of hiding. His sword remained inches from his fingertips, one fell motion to rise and slay his captors. Yet he stopped. He could not move. "Such a pretty waste," the brother said.
Chantae screamed a horrific cry into the night, then gurgled as her brother slit her throat with a knife. Her body slinked over and collapsed to the mud. Vicor felt the earth shake around him. He lit up like a flame. He had failed to act and now Chantae was dead. He did not understand. How could they be such cold-hearted killers? Vicor's rage burned deep inside and he wanted to scream and receive vengeance for Chantae's death. "Get a move on," the man shouted. "Search the grassland. He can't be far." The men stamped through the mud and trotted away. Silence surrounded Vicor once more, though his heart pounded from his chest and the sound swelled his head. He clenched his fists, mashed the mud tight, and ground his teeth until they hurt through to the core. He wanted to shout. He wanted to chase those men and kill them for their sin, but Vicor remained. Moments passed and Vicor checked his surroundings. He opened his eyes, turned his head sideways, and observed no sign of the perpetrators. He rose slowly and twisted his head about. Full darkness had come upon the valley with no sign of the brothers or their torchlights. Vicor stood once more. He crawled along the surface and heaved himself on Chantae's lifeless body. Her neck was slit and he looked away from the bloody opening. Blood had stained her muddy chest and drizzled across her lap. Vicor choked as his throat dried and lost his voice. He was overcome with emotion for the death of his love. He could not understand the senseless means the men had used to end her existence. But most of all, Vicor blamed himself. He got her into this situation, himself injured, and he froze at the time to defend her execution. He became sicken with grief and he vomited on his own feet. He wiped his mouth, leaned on his sword and looked once more at his love. He felt sorry and shameful. He wanted vengeance for her death and he wanted to kill those men. And even worse, Vicor himself wanted to die. He felt no more honor to his life. He stumbled to the water. He knelt down, cupped his hands, and brought the clear liquid to his face. He splashed and cleaned the grimy mud from his face. He examined his hands, as residue of Chantae's blood ran diluted like a bloody stream down his forearm. Vicor cursed himself. He removed the bandage from his knee and smelled the sick of
rotting flesh. He entered the river and immersed his body, fully clothed, into the stream. He brushed vigorously, removed mud from crevices and the hair on his head. Then lastly he cleaned his blade. He took the sword, dipped it in water, and held it high as it glistened in the moonlight. Vicor returned to his betrothed, kissed two of his fingers, and pressed the kiss onto Chantae's head. He closed her eyes then continued on the journey. He did not look back. There was no more looking behind. Vicor began to hunt.
Joseph Stephens is an American short story author who has lived many adventures including working for Disney, camp counselor, and standup comedian. Born and raised in New Hampshire, he currently lives in Florida with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Story Shack Magazine and Bewildering Stories.
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