Under the fable, issue 7

Note from editor

Can you believe that Under The Fable has survived another term? This is our seventh edition, our seventh issue guys. There has been some changes over the last seven issues, and I have enjoyed every moment of that. The stories and poems that have arrived into our inbox have given us a range of emotions, and I personally am going to miss that.

Yes, I have been with Under The Fable since the beginning, as Creative Editor, and then bouncing between Creative Editor and Editor in Chief. This time, I am permanently handing the reins over to Meg Shipham, and I am taking my bow. I want to thank all the readers of the Under The Fable franchise, those who keep writing, and those who keep reading. This magazine would be nothing, and pointless without you all.

So in my final hurrah with Under The Fable, I want to thank the team that have worked hard. I would like to welcome the new blood, and hope that they all handle this magazine carefully, it feels like it will always be my baby. And to those who have let me edit their stories and poems, I thank you for the opportunity. Keep writing. Keep reading.

You may enjoy the nonsense, and the seriousness that is embedded within these pages. So get that coffee going, get your feet up‌

Take it away Larry the Cat...

Content Page Poetry Page 4. Slow Death In Winter. Barry Woods Page 5. Brain Teased. John Grey Page 6. Gramps’ Garden. Bethany McTrustery Page 7. Here and Now. Antony Franks Page 8. Be There. Hayden Robinson Page 10. Holding Softness. Doc Wallace Page 11. Moonlight Dancing. Ghazal Choudhary Page 12. in their red boats and yellow jackets. Rab Ferguson Page 13. Respect, No Negativity. Liam Ferguson Page 14. Stinging Nettles. Steve Harrison Page 15. Tasmania the Cat. Charlie Jones Page 16. Eyescape. Evie Groch Page 17. Origins. Evie Groch Page 18. On Facebook. Claire Therese

Page 19. Review: The Sister Worlds.

Prose Page 20. Oh Carol; I am But A Fool. Alec Sillifant Page 22. The Owls. Jeff Thompson Page 30. Serrated Teeth. Steve Harrison Page 31. A Little Piece of Heaven. Anna Rashid Page 35. The Greatest American Diner. Matt Earl Page 36. Zofia. Cameron Grace

Page 41. Oi Human. Larry The Cat.

Slow Death in Winter We turned into a blizzard.

Words froze from your lips as you became abominable no layers could protect me from the blast of polar ice.

A Yeti grew under your skin: excuses were grunts, expression, that of a deviant species

and you drifted off.

Through valley and forest to your next stage of evolution.

Barry Woods

Brain Teased Sure there was something in me that needed to solve the paradox of the heap, the elevator problem, the unexpected hanging, the Thompson Lamp

I drew the diagrams,

defined three herders and their sheep into formulas and fractions I drove my brain like some of those same sheep Might have had it too The numbers, the equations, were about to surrender to the sweat of my brain But suddenly I thought, what's the point of knowing something?

Why not make coffee?

Why not sit out on the porch and watch the sun set?

What's a big mental payday anyhow, but some quirk of the geek in me that won't lie down when I tell it to?

Well now I'm telling it to

Sip of excellent Java, comfy chair, and a warm glow to the horizon And then it hits me the right hand rule will get you out of the maze any time But that doesn't help with the rotating color wheel

The coffee's drunk The sun goes down Empty cup and the night...

now what is that the answer to, exactly?

John Grey

Gramps’ Garden When I was four we watched the solar eclipse in a bucket of water

sending beams across my sister’s faces

while surrounded by freesias and stargazing lilies

while fairies waltzed in forest dust.

I sat on your knee, my hair dipped into water.

Can you see them? They’re dancing for you.

Sending ripples across the sky.

When I was eleven The adults stopped talking and even Rebecca hushed,

the weeds crept up on your garden,

I remember thinking the moon would never move.

rhubarb leaves eaten by slugs and snails,

When I was six we walked in your vegetable patch, a wooden fence

strawberries withered from too much sun, and fairyland was taken over by ivy.

separating it from your flowers and hedgerows.

You grew Goliath rhubarb, plums, and strawberries

that never made it past the red-green ripeness.

I didn’t wear shoes in your garden, I would gather grass between my toes

and green stains bloomed over white socks.

Sometimes you’d let the daisies grow

I’d replant them in your beard, stems woven and wrapped round the frames of your glasses.

When I was eight the hill we used to roll down was smothered, turned into a stream we weren’t allowed to play in.

It had a bridge to fairyland at the end of the garden, where stone ornaments hid beneath sweeping webs

made by the spiders after attending the fairy ball.

The sun’s afterglow filtered through fir branches,

Bethany McTrustery

And then, at the end of August, the stream was turned off.

Here and Now They say that computers will soon breathe and be able to think for themselves.

So: they will have hearts and brains emotions, fears and silicon diseases that tear down their neural pathways like electronic cancer and know hurt that freezes oil like blood in bandwidth veins; fear the death of valve-powered parents and make electronic wills to pass on their memories: RAM and ROM to their hand-held siblings (Who will ignore the passing of superannuated antiquated technologies.)

And what of cyber-senility? The horror of Artificial Alzheimers where each decision compounds errors of judgment and makes imprecise calculations that would give an abacus screaming terrors?

They have all this to look forward to, even if they don’t know it yet.

And what of the digital God? Caged in a titanium prison with screens that blank-faced assess the world.

Soon the man-machine interface will have a face: 24 inches, emission shielded; no need of me or you; the baton yielded to the faster runner in the inhuman race.

I will look forward to my retirement as being superfluous to electronic requirements.

I will shut myself slowly down hard drive happily spinning slowly into silence as I walk along the beach whistling.

Let them understand the tyranny of body clocks.

They must be mad.

Life is easier as a metal box.

Antony Franks

Be there fuckin tired we are glass shatterin shush it is just another day SHRIVEL for da day

no I fancy a walk weak feet numb so you say the central library towers over us

books r filth ratha eat shit don’t upset me now found a good one ‘how to live with…’

STOP IGNORIN ME the librarian smiled as I asked her where self-help was hands cold TREMBLE mouth drie it is okay burns SPIN

in the head SICK in the stomac keep it together stay calm no fuckin useles

give me air

let me breath fuck off arms TENSE now FALL why are you pushing me down people will see

panic hate for others SCREAM no people are near wot can dey do just be there

Hayden Robinson

Holding Softness I remember her supple skin, radiating warmth as she lay beside me in the hay loft

The early evening stars peeking out from sleep,

blinking a greeting to the night as we watched, content

Our minds racing, wondering to the next move Unpracticed in our innocence No burden of guilt

Our heads almost touch I feel her looking at me so I turn to see, her midnight eyes so close

Her lips full, near bursting, pulling mine into them Then it happens I don't know how

Beyond a conscious act our lips find each other, holding softness in our memories forever

Doc Wallace

Moonlight Dancing

Soft waves of ebony glistened like drenched feathers The pale moonlight stroked them like the bright furs of cherished pets...

My fingers stumbled through night, knotting in the thickness and pulling...

She watched me with stars twinkling in her eyes.

The gentle tug of her hands urged me closer...

They were alone beneath the veil, the moon was their spotlight and they were perfectly synchronised.

Ghazal Choudhary

in their red boats and yellow jackets The cat meows up from the kitchen floor; he wants me to do something about the rain.

He eats from the food bowl on the table.

I sit opposite him with a plate of buttered bread and explain about flood plains and deforestation and the possible influence of global warming.

He peeks nervously over the table edge, my socks are soaked inside my shoes.

He struggles and scratches me as I wade with him down the hall.

“Where are you going to go?” I say, indicating the water with my free hand.

He does not appreciate the logic of my argument.

The pet box is upturned and open-doored balanced on an almost submerged chair.

It is difficult to push him in.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, holding the box up above the water.

He stares—pleading or blaming—through the cage door.

“The men will come for us.”

Rab Ferguson

Respect, No Negativity

Deformed, crazy, cripple and retarded I don't understand the negativity Slow we may be, not as fast as you All we are is different and unique Blind you are, to our situation

I dare you to wear our shoes

Let's hear the negative thoughts now I dare you to see it from our perspective Time to respect us for who we are You won't be quite as negative

Don't treat us different with disability I assure you, you are the blind one Special, what we are, not for your reasons All we do is see the world different But we are unique, special, one of a kind

I wish you could see things our way Looking forward to the positive I'd show you, change your negative views Time to respect us for who we are You won't be quite as negative

Liam Ferguson

Stinging Nettles A garden-gloved hand seeks out the slender stalk of the stinging nettle, tracing the stem down to earth, aiming to pull it out whole.

A primal satisfaction.

Lifting without breaking,

teasing stringy lengths of purple roots intact.

A bundle of nuisance carefully wrapped to a toxic ball, tossed over arm to ferment new life in the compost.

As Robin followed wild boar, Nettle follows human.

Circling around their fires, clambering over dilapidations,

elbowing out natives from the hedgerow saying thank you for nitrogen with stinging handshake.

A bare elbow and uncovered calf seek a dock leaf; flesh staining primitive poultice, rusting remnant of forgotten folklore rubbed on with ancient anticipation, this handy hedgerow anti histamine.

Nettle and Human.

Come round for tea or a salad, shoot up to show our bonfires.

Nettle and dock, good neighbours, human contrasts, natural connections, poison and cure, side by side, hand in gloveless hand.

Steve Harrison

Tasmania the Cat Tasmania the cat is as cool as can be, a little bit crazy, completely care free, Tasmania sleeps in my bed, next to me, Tasmania is cool, don’t you agree?

Tasmania loves to run wild and free, play in the garden, climb up a tree, he only comes down when I call him for tea, his favourite time is when it’s time to eat!

Taz has no tail, his eyes are bright green, he’s travelled to places that I’ve never been, I wonder what marvellous things he has seen, since Taz has no tail, he chases his dreams!

Taz gives me cuddles and he’s never mean, he’s black and he’s white, a little like me, I love Taz for Taz, he loves me for me, Tasmania’s the coolest cat I’ve ever seen!

Charlie Jones

Eyescape Eyes, yours , hazel green, peer softly through the gauze, diffuse the golden flecks that orbit round the black hole.

A blanket of straw as a canvas, a hint of olive dipped in amber pull me into your gaze, invite me to linger in your enveloping warmth.

As you mingle with mortals, weave through charm and deceit, they bring the calm toward which others are drawn.

It occurs to me these are the colors of trust.

Evie Groch

Origins I’m from wringer washing machines, glass milk bottles, from iceboxes and wild blackberries.

I stem from the detested beet used to poison the borscht, from peasant potatoes, the scorned side of the track.

I’m from accented immigrants and multilingual Central Asian Stans, from mamaliga, and watching my father stir his tea in a glass while sucking on a sugar cube.

I’m from lands of TB Introduced to me in early years of forced travel , from Iodine, Hostess Twinkies, and Tab. I’m from lamb chops and canned peas served to me as my daily vegetable.

I’m from chopped liver, not paté, from fish eaten with a bit of sweetness and herring swimming in barrels.

I’m from people who say the Sh’ma, from souls almost extinguished in death chambers, from survivors who’ll never let me forget.

I’m from emotional scars captured in a sea of photos of faces I’ve never known, in albums never finished.

Evie Groch

On Facebook I remember how on the carousel I hung on to my bag like roasting chestnuts.

And you said 'If you can't do this, I'm unfriending you on Facebook’.

Claire Therese

The Sister Worlds- A Review

So, I have been reading a book by a wonderful young writer called Samantha Connolly. Now, I am not a huge fan of the science fiction genre but ‘The Sister Worlds’ was a brilliant read.

The story involves Earth and two ‘moons’ Orgatoh and Unitah and so we have humans, orgatohns and unitahns as our characters. It’s also worth keeping in mind that Orgatoh was separated from Unitah and an impenetrable barrier was created.

The main plot of the book is that Earth is in danger, the alien worlds use human ‘positivity’ as a means to survive but the Orgatohns have depleted Earth to a point where humans are more negative than positive in their emotions. As a result of this, Unitah is also in danger of melting and the solution is for them to coexist with humans on Earth but to do that they have to penetrate the barrier that separates Unitah from Orgatoh.

On Earth we have two sisters who are half human and half orgatohn and it is believed that they are the only hope for survival.

To make matters even more intense there is a third alien presence that goes unnamed for most of the book and none of our existing characters know what or who they are or what they want. The evil force in the story seems to be the mysterious character/characters referred to as ‘The Six Eyes’.

Although it sounds quite confusing, it is actually not that hard to follow when you are reading the book. The story flows well and is told in short chapters that jump from different situations in different places. It is told from a third person close narrative voice and each character has a distinct personality. What I found to be great about ‘The Sister Worlds’ is that you feel for each character and you join them in their irritation with ‘The Six Eyes’, who are annoyingly secretive in their actions and agenda, and occasionally the irritation they feel towards each other every now and again. The narrative allows you to understand each character’s perspective and this helps you bond with them.

The beginning of the book can be a bit overwhelming as you adjust to its realities and try to get your head around the different worlds but after the initial introduction, all new information is fed in easy to digest pieces and the story flows very smoothly.

The writing itself is brilliant, the imagery used as well as the narrative voice used work together to bring the fictional world and characters to life. One of my favourite parts of the book is a characteristic of the aliens. The aliens aren’t very good at ‘emotions’ and they literally break into pieces, this is called ‘diffracting’ in the book, I think it s brilliant to make the aliens feelings physical and they are unable to control it which is also something that many people can relate to.

All in all I found Samantha Connolly’s book to be quite entertaining, the mystery of what will happen and the plight of the characters makes you want to read on and the great writing is an added bonus that makes it an easy and delightful read. I would definitely recommend it. It is not a bulky book and it kind of makes you sad that it wasn’t longer.

Oh Carol; I Am But A Fool With one hand clutching a thick, cold tension cable, Carol inched her stilettoes closer to the edge of the red girder. She took a deep breath of damp air. ‘You can do this, Carol.’ She lifted her left foot and let it hover above the fluffy vista.

‘Hi there; you okay?’ Carol snatched her foot back and twisted her body so both her hands welded to the cable.

‘Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me.’ The young woman said, not turning to address the unwanted company face to face.

‘I’m sorry, but you’re kinda scaring me a little too. Why don’t you come down and we can talk things through?’

Carol managed to pull her mesmerised eyes away from the bed of fog to see that the nosey Samaritan was an elderly man made up of what seemed to be mostly of scarf and coat.

‘I have every intention of coming down,’ said Carol, ‘but not that way.’

The man smiled. ‘Things can’t be that bad. It’s Christmas.’

‘It’s that bad precisely because it is Christmas.’ The contempt was obvious.

The smile on the old man’s face did not falter. ‘Think how much worse a place the world would be if you hadn’t been born.’

Carol frowned. ‘Wait a second…are you trying to ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ me out of suicide? Unbelievable.’

The old man shrugged. ‘Worth a go. What’s your name, child?’

‘My name,’ laughed Carol, ‘oh, now we’re talking. It’s Carol.’

‘That’s a lovely…’

‘Servace. My name is, Carol Servace.’

‘Oh.’ ‘I don’t know why my parents didn’t just prefix it with ‘Midnight’ and go for the hat trick.’

‘But it can’t be –‘ ‘That bad? Really. Every Christmas for the last thirty-five years I’ve had to go through December facing ridicule, giggling and snide comments. And the Christmas cards, God, I hate the Christmas cards. People think they’re so fucking witty writing them.

Most women have their time of the month; I have my time of the year!’ said Carol, releasing one of her hands to accentuate her rage. ‘Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any idea?’

‘Well,’ said the old man slowly, ‘yes I do.’

‘Yeah right,’ said Carol, turning away from the old man.

‘It’s Jim,’ said the old man, ‘Jim Bells.’

‘Jim Bells! What’s so bad about that?’

The old man lowered his head. ‘My middle name is Gil.’ ‘Jim Gil Bells! Jim Gil Bells! What’s the big de…’ Carol paused as she heard her own words. ‘Oh, I see…I’m sorry.’

A tear formed in Jim’s eye. ‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Every time I hear that fucking song, I want to…I want to…’ The old man walked forward and lifted his leg to place his foot on the girder.

‘What are you doing, Jim?’ said Carol, a little panic in her voice.

The old man hoisted himself up until he too was looking down on the fog. ‘I’m joining you.’

‘What? But you can’t.’

‘Why not?’ said Jim. ‘You’re right, having a Christmas cracker joke of a name is no fun at all.’

‘But –‘

‘All my life I’ve been taking it on the chin, laughing along, thinking I was being brave; but you have shown me what true bravery is.’ He looked down at the dense white cloud. ‘Today we’re going to take away a little of their Christmas cheer and I feel Goddamn good about doing it.’

‘Maybe we should reconsider, Jim, it could be it’s not that bad at all. I have had quite a bit to drink.’

‘No, Carol,’ said Jim, ‘that way they win. That way they get their infantile kicks every December.’ The old man held out his hand. ‘Come on, Carol Servace, let’s ruin their Christmas together.’

Carol felt as if she’d had a bolt of steel inserted in her spine as she straightened up and flared her nostrils in defiance.

‘You’re right, fuck ‘em,’she said, taking the old man’s hand in hers. ‘Jim Gil Bells, let’s show them we win this Christmas; the joke’s on them.’

Jim and Carol looked into each other’s eyes.

‘Merry Christmas, Carol.’

‘Merry Christmas, Jim.’ They stepped, as one, into the fog.

As they fell, still holding hands, Carol heard a bell ring out. Not a gentle tinkle like Santa’s sleigh bells but a large boom that a dark clock tower’s bell would tone. She had a weird feeling the bell was cracked and covered in eons of soot. ‘What was that?’

‘Don’t you know?’ said Jim calmly. ‘Every time a demon condemns a soul he gets his horns and the Bell of Beelzebub sounds in celebration.’

Carol’s eyes widened with realisation. ‘You mean…’

Two twisted horns, that any Alpine ibex would have been mighty proud of, curled forth from the forehead of Jim. He smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Carol Servace, thanks for the gift.’ The newly promoted demon faded and melted into the fog.

Carol looked up. She hadn’t made a cartoon shape in the fog; in fact she had barely disturbed it and she was a little disappointed that her death had made as little impact as her life. She began to sing. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground…

Alec Sillifant

THE OWLS ‘You know, it wasn’t always like this, Clarice.’

‘Who’s Clarice?’ she asked delicately. ‘And how is it different now, Seth?’

‘Well, it used to be - used to be a lot quieter.’ Seth turned his head and stared through her face. ‘Remember? Before the owls, Clarice.’ She smiled. ‘Seth. My name’s not Clarice, it’s Susan Chandler. I’m a certified counselor with suicide prevention. You called our line, and said you wanted help. Do you remember making that phone call?’

His grey eyes stayed fixed on the empty fireplace. His hands rested firm and stiff on the arms of the blue paisley armchair that didn’t match the rest of the room. He chuckled without a smile or smirk then turned his head again toward her.

‘Why do you always say that?’ His voice was thick and flat. ‘That your name isn’t Clarice? You’ve said that before. But I’m not going to fall for it. Not this time.’

Susan sat to his right, catty cornered and uncomfortable in a rusted, metal chair the policeman brought in from the front porch. There wasn’t another stick of furniture in the room. She was still in her plain purple scrubs that she wore for her graveyard rotation at the hotline. She never dressed up for the overnights. She had her long, black hair pulled back into a simple pony tail. She looked tired.

She glanced back at the uniformed officer who stood behind them with his back against the wall. Then she scanned Seth’s living room. It was too hot, too stuffy, and too small. The deep red curtains that covered the windows on the other side of Seth were closed tight with just a finger width of morning sunlight trickling in. There were no decorations, no pictures on the

walls, and the horrible smell that filled her nostrils when she first arrived was still sour as ever.

‘You called the ambulance?’ she asked the officer.

‘Yes ma’am. They’re twenty minutes out.’

She nodded, then slid her attention back to Seth, who hadn’t released the empty fireplace from his gaze. The room was too dark to make out much detail about his face. She guessed him to be about forty, maybe forty five. He was barefooted in jeans and a long sleeved, blue flannel shirt which he had buttoned all the way up to his Adam’s apple. It was mid-July.

She cocked her head to the side to appear more sincere.

‘We have an ambulance coming, Seth,’ she said. ‘They’ll take you to a place where you can talk to some people and

help you figure things out.’

‘The owls will still be there,’ he confirmed. ‘They’ll follow. They can fly, you know.’

‘These are good people. They can help you figure out why you’re hearing the owls.’ She pulled out the small notebook she carried with her everywhere. ‘Do you remember the last time you had a good night's sleep?’ She clicked open the pen which made Seth give a little start.

‘I don’t sleep, Clarice. Not since the owls came. I just walk the floor all night.’ She wrote that down.

‘I see. And what do they say? Do they tell you to hurt yourself?’ A long pause; an uncomfortable silence. Then he spoke.

‘I’ve told you so many times what they tell me to do. And until I do it they just screech and screech and screech.’ His head pivoted. His grey eyes darkened, and hollowed out. ‘Like this-’ His jaw fell. He took a deep breath and from the lining of his throat he conjured a screeching noise so loud, so incredibly terrifying, Susan’s vertebrae retracted and acid filled her stomach. He didn’t stop.

She got woozy, started feeling sick. The stench coming from all around her, and from under her feet, was tightening her veins.

‘Ok-ok, that’s enough, Seth.’ She put a hand over her mouth and one in the air. ‘Please stop that.’ She breathed a heavy breath into her palm.

Seth closed his jaw and looked back into the fireplace.

‘The fire is dying, Clarice. I’m feeling chilly.’ Susan closed her eyes and regained herself.

‘Seth,’ she said. ‘There’s no fire.’ He chuckled through a sandy smile.

‘Stop this charade! You’re driving me mad.’ He stood up unannounced, alerting the attention of the officer. Susan threw her hand up to broadcast a halt, a sign that she had it handled.

‘Seth? What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I need to put another log on the fire before it dies. I’m feeling chilly.’ He moved his eyes in her direction, but they never met hers. ‘I’m chilly,’ he whispered.

The pen dangled in her fingers. She watched as he bent over and pretended to pick up a log, and gingerly put it in the

fireplace. She had the instinct, or perhaps a touch of madness herself, to warn him not to burn himself. Without looking away, she wrote two words in her notebook, slightly sideways and outside of the lines: Obviously delusional.

Seth sat back down with stiff, robotic movements. His flannel shirt merged with the pattern of the chair. There was a new darkness. No more sunlight seeped in. Outside, on the horizon beyond the foothills and the railroad tracks, Susan knew a storm was coming.

‘That’s better now, isn’t it, Clarice?’

‘Seth. I’m not Clarice. I’m Susan Chan-’ she stopped short. She heard her words getting harsh, irritable. Calm down.

Seth’s call came in at 7:03 am, just as she was ending her shift at the hotline - she was exhausted.

Observing that he wasn’t listening, she trashed that thought for the next.

‘Seth, I’m going to go and talk to this officer for a moment. Is that alright with you?’ There was no reply. Seth just raised his palms to the fireplace and let half a grin grow on his lips.

She stood up and went over to the officer, taking a giant step over a pile of ancient magazines. The top copy showed a nice close up picture of an owl. She got close to the officer and smiled.

‘Can you check on that ambulance?’ she asked with a squinted eye.

‘They said they were on their way, ma'am. Just sit tight.’ She started to wring her hands.

‘I’m feeling a lot of tension coming from him,’ she said. ‘I think the longer we wait the more agitated he may become.

Without proper sedation... can you at least check?’ The officer shrugged before turning his back to her and squeezing the button on his shoulder radio.

‘Four-nine,’ he said.

‘Copy four-nine; go ahead.’ The dispatchers crackled voice.

‘Can I get an ETA on my bus?’

‘Copy four-nine; hold on.’

Susan kept her eyes on Seth. She tiptoed back and leaned over on one foot to see his face. She wasn’t certain why or what she thought she might see, but all she saw was the same forged in steel expression she left him with.

The officer got her attention.

‘The transport got caught up in traffic, ma’am. They said it’s gonna be another forty-five minutes or more.

Construction on I-90 got everything backed up.’ Forty-five minutes! Entire empires have been lost in forty-five minutes!

Susan had been dealing with disturbed people for most of her adult life. She knew the signs, and she knew when certain cases were becoming time sensitive. And her instincts and Seth’s body language told her this one was heading that way.

She admitted to herself that the eeriness of it all, even with the officer there, had her feeling uneasy. She was scared.

‘Officer, could you possibly transport him?’

He shook his head before she finished her request. ‘That’s outside of the city limits. No-can-do. The best I could do is place him under arrest and book him then-’

‘No. No I don’t want to do that.’ She didn’t want to do that because it would take all day. The officer shrugged again.

‘Well, I swept the room. No weapons, drugs or anything dangerous. We just have to sit tight.’

She smiled a plastic smile and went back over to her folding chair and sat down, the whole time keeping her awareness between the officer and Seth.

‘We haven’t much time,’ Seth said. ‘They’ll be coming back soon.’

‘Who’s coming back, Seth?’

‘The owls, Clarice, haven't you been paying attention? The owls that take your soul and put you in another body. They will be back soon, waiting. Waiting for your soul to be released, Clarice.’

‘Seth for the last time, my name is not Clarice. It’s Susan Chandler from the-’

Seth sprung forward and stood. The officer came to the defensive and unsnapped his gun strap. He cradled the handle.

‘No no no no no no no no!’ Seth screamed. His face contorted and went radish red. ‘Just stop saying that!’ He turned sharp and put a finger three inches from her nose. ‘Just stop lying! You say your name is Susan, but I can see it in your eyes, you ARE Clarice!’ The officer stepped forward. Susan didn’t want him to. Any aggression now would set Seth off to a point of no return. She had to weaken the tension.

‘Alright, Seth. If it makes you feel more comfortable to call me Clarice, then I will allow it, on the condition you sit back down in the chair and wait with me while the ambulance arrives.’ She used her kindergarten teacher voice. ‘We don't have to talk anymore if you don’t want to.’

‘You can’t outrun them,’ Seth said, looking back into the fireplace. ‘They fly too fast. Like demons.’ He sat back down in his chair and let the silence trickle. Then he asked, ‘have you ever fought a demon, Clarice? I mean a real demon? From Hell?’

‘We all have demons to face, Seth. Some of us just need-’ The officer broke in, ‘the bus will be here in about fifteen minutes with backup, ma’am. They found an alternate route.’ Waterfall of relief.

‘Thank you,’ she said, then turned to Seth. ‘Alright, your ambulance will be here soon.’ Seth crossed his arms, rubbed his biceps, then shivered. ‘I’m really chilly now. I’m going to put another log on the fire.’

His voice had changed, softened; his demeanor shifted. He seemed more relaxed and at ease. The rigidity of his face vanished and a more boyish expression took over.

Rubber bands snapped in Susan’s back and shoulders. A held breath escaped. She clicked open her pen again and started taking notes of what had transpired. Seth stood up then bent over and pretended to place another make believe log on the invisible fire. Susan scribbled away and didn’t notice Seth remove the front, center tile of the hearth and pulled out a handgun. He snapped upright. He turned toward the officer. Before the officer could even think about saying ‘hold it’, Seth aimed and fired. The gun made a blast. A trickle of blood escaped from where the bullet had hit the officer’s head, and flowed down his confused face. He fell forward.

Susan dropped her pen and tossed her notebook. She sat with her wide open mouth and eyes looking into the hollow gun barrel.

‘Seth! What the-’ ‘The owls are coming, Clarice. I hear their wings flapping. We haven't much time.’

She gathered up every bit of calm she had left in her. Her nerves were firing. Her breath was short. She swallowed.

‘Seth,’ she said, just above a whisper, and put up two palms up in front of her. ‘Seth, now we are going to calm down.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m already calm, Clarice. There’s no cause for any alarm here. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve killed before.’

‘Who, Seth, who have you killed?’

‘Well, you of course. Seven times so far.’

‘Seth, you need help. I can help you.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said. ‘That’s why I called you. I need your help. You see, the owls don’t tell me to hurt myself-they tell me to kill you. Over and over again I kill you and stack your body in the basement. But they just take your soul to another body. Then they screech to be released again. It’s becoming tedious.’

‘Seth, this time you’re wrong. I’m not Clarice, you only think that I am.’

He ignored her and continued: ‘I’m tired of killing you. I can’t do it anymore Clarice, I love you. But I have to get your voice out of my head-and the owls. I want silence.’

‘Alright, then just put the gun down and when the ambulance gets here-’

‘I need you to kill me, Clarice.’ His words hit like an arctic blast.

‘Kill you?! I-I can’t kill you!’

‘And I can’t commit suicide,’ he said. ‘Lord knows I’ve tried. Do you know how many times I’ve turned this gun on myself, Clarice? I hold my finger on the trigger, feeling the callous building in my gut-then the owls start screeching-I can’t think -I can only kill. The owls are in you, Clarice, behind your eyes. They scream to be released. I-have to release them. I’m sorry. If you don’t shoot me I’ll have to open your skull-just like the others-Clarice, the wisest of the mother owls.’

‘I’m not going to kill you,’ she said, flat as a desert road.

He raised the gun and tightened his grip. ‘Go over to him, to that cop, and get his gun.’

‘No, Seth please, listen to me, we have -’ ‘No no no no no no no!’ He hammered the heel of his hand against his temple. ‘They are coming, now! Get the gun!’

‘No, I-’ ‘NOW!’ He screamed so loud, so piercing, Susan felt the echo behind her ribs. She jumped and started. Then she leapt over to the dead policeman’s body and gently pulled the gun from his belt.

‘Good,’ Seth said as a smile grew on his face. ‘Now, back over where you were.’ She complied with tears forming, obscuring the ground as she watched her footsteps.

‘Seth-I can’t-I don't know how to fire a gun.’ He lowered his pistol. His tone changed, almost sounding.. normal. ‘Oh sure you can, it’s easy. Here, is the safety off? Let me take a look at it.’ Her hand convulsed, her wrist barely able to control the weight of the .45. She held out the gun for him to examine.

‘See there?’ Seth pointed a thick index finger to the side of her gun. ‘That’s the safety. It’s off. You may point and click at will, Clarice.’

She looked over the body of the officer, her eyes glazed over, it went blurry.

‘Clarice, pay attention, look over here.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘It’s going to get intense now. We have a very busy next few seconds. I need you to focus.’

‘You called me to help you.’

‘I called you and told you I wanted to kill myself and I needed help. Weren’t those my words?’

‘Yes, but-’ ‘And you said on the phone you could help me, didn’t you?’ He raised his eyebrows, which made him look a little less evil, a little more like a clown.

‘I can help you, Seth. You don’t have to die.’

‘No no no no no no!’ He slammed his hand against his temple again. ‘One of us is going to die today! It’s either you or me Clarice!’

‘No! I can’t!’

He raised his gun.

‘Clarice! Pay attention!’

‘I can’t!’

‘Then you will join the others in the basement! I'm giving you until the count of three!’ He smiled. ‘One!’ ‘Please,’ Susan said as tears now fell freely.

‘Two!’ ‘No, please, Seth. I can help you.’ He lowered the gun.

‘Now why do you want to keep ruining the moment?’

‘Just calm down Seth-we can get you help to get rid of the owls.’

He tightened his arm again, flexed his bicep, and narrowed his eyes.

‘It’s you or me, Clarice! Raise your gun and fire!’

‘I can’t, I’m telling you I can’t-’ ‘Here we go, Clarice!’

‘No!’ Her hand shook. She watched it raise. They were only inches apart.

‘Three!’

A sharp blast ripped through the room. A body slumped onto the floor. Seth never fired his gun.

The smell of powder and burnt flesh made her want to vomit. She sat down on the floor. She wanted to cry, she felt like crying. She couldn’t cry. The stack of old magazines sat next to her. On the top was the owl. She stared at it. Yellow eyes stared back at her. Then she heard them. Off in the distance. A screeching. The screeching of the owls. She sat, silent, listening to the screeches.

A noise startled her. Awoke her from her daze. The front door swung open. Two uniformed police officers entered carefully, guns drawn and pointed. When they saw her they split up. One went to her right. The other came directly toward her, another gun in her face. She saw the words, but heard nothing. Then faded back into reality.

‘On the ground now! Face down now!’ The officer screamed. She heard the other one on his radio. Calling for backup. Her hands flew high.

‘Officers! Listen, he’s dead.’

‘Drop the weapon and go face down now!’ the officer yelled again. She didn’t realize she was still clutching the gun in her talon. She released it and let it fall to the floor. He sprinted over and kicked it out of the way and in one motion holstered his weapon and pulled out his handcuffs.

‘Face down now!’

She hesitated then obeyed. The officer overpowered her slow motions and clutched her wrist. He clicked the handcuffs on one, then the other, wrist. He pulled her up into a seated position next to the stack of old magazines.

‘Now just sit here while we sort this out’ the officer said. ‘You’re not under arrest yet, this is for my own safety,’ he glanced around. ‘We received a 911 call about a disturbance and shots fired from this residence. Did you make that call?’

Together they looked at the phone laying off the hook and on the floor.

‘I-I don’t remember. I must have. I was in shock I-’ ‘Jesus, look at this,’ the other officer said. ‘We got one here and one over by the fireplace.’ He took out his flashlight and shined it all around, up and down. Susan was sick. She took a deep, calming breath. She could still taste the flash from the gunpowder.

‘Officer, listen,’ she said. ‘My name’s Susan Chandler from the suicide prevention center. I came here to help this man. Over there, by that chair you’ll find my purse and notebook. My ID is in there.’

The first officer looked around the chair, even moved it out of the way.

‘There’s nothing here except a magazine. You say you had a purse and notebook?’

‘Yes, there, right where you are standing. I think I may have thrown it. I-I don’t remember.’

He shook his head and glanced at his partner.

‘There’s nothing here, ma’am.’ Magma bubbled in her stomach.

‘It has to be there!’ she screamed.

‘There’s nothing. Did you shoot these men?’

‘Yes, well no. Not both of them. Only him, Seth, the one by the fireplace. Look he had a gun-he-shot that officer in the head. I saw it. He was going to shoot me too!’

He went over and looked around Seth’s body. Then using his foot, he lifted the front of the chair. ‘There’s no other gun here,’ he said.

‘There has to be.’

‘You admit you shot this man?’

‘Yes, I shot him in self-defense. He had a gun and was pointing it at me. Please check in the fireplace.’

‘I’m telling you, ma’am, there’s no gun here. Nothing that even resembles a gun. You sure you saw a gun?’

‘Yes! He had a gun! I swear! He shot that officer in the forehead with it! Then he was going to shoot me. He told me to get the officer's gun and shoot him. He told me to or he was going to kill me.’

‘He told you to shoot him or he was going to kill you?’

‘Yes. He shot that officer first.’ They had to believe. They would believe.

The officer went over to the other body.

‘This isn’t a police officer, ma’am. Looks to me like he was a security guard. Did he tell you he was a policeman?’

‘Yes, I mean, he was here before I got here, don’t you know him? He called the ambulance. He stood guard.’

‘He doesn’t have on his utility belt, ma’am.’ The officer looked past her, past the chair she was sitting in and there beside the fireplace. He shined his flashlight and saw what he was looking for. ‘Is that it over there? Near to where you say you were sitting?’

Susan wrenched her neck in the direction in which the officer was pointing. She squinted. The officer went over, putting on blue latex gloves as he went. He picked up the utility belt with his armpit clutching the flashlight. The brightness blinded her.

‘The bullets here match the caliber gun we found in your hand. But you’re saying you took the gun from his body?’

‘Yes, Seth was pointing a gun at me,’ she said through tears. ‘He told me to go over and pick up the policeman’s gun and kill him or he was going to kill me.’

‘There’s no other gun here, ma’am.’ The other officer said, having completed his search.

‘That can’t be-he was going to kill me. The owls-’ ‘The what?’ the first officer asked.

‘The owls-they told him to kill me and release them and put me with the others.’

‘What others?’

‘The other Clarice's. They told him to kill them all and then me too.’

‘You say the owls told him to kill you?’

‘Yes-I mean-’ The officer bent down and picked up the magazine that laid by Susan’s chair.

‘Do you mean these owls?’ He showed her the cover.

‘No, the owls in his head, I mean the one’s living inside me. See, they take my soul to a new body and-I-I don’t know, it sounds crazy, but the owls told him to kill me.’

‘And you heard the owls tell him this?’

A screech.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘They talk to him. He told me they were telling him that.’ She knew she wasn’t making any

sense, but nothing would come out right. ‘Please look again. The gun has to be here.’

Another screech.

‘There’s no gun here except yours, ma’am. How do you know these men?’

‘Seth-that man by the fireplace-called the hotline-the suicide prevention center hotline-and said he needed help. He wanted to die. He said he wanted me to kill him.’

‘And you happily obliged?’

‘No, I mean yes, after I got here-’ Tears again. Confusion. The stench coming through the floorboards. Nausea.

Screeching.

~~~ An ambulance pulled up outside the house and parked at the rear of the police cruiser. Behind it, a green Chevy Cavalier pulled up, parked, and a well dressed man, early fifties with a salt and pepper beard, got out and hurried past the paramedics to the door. The officer tried to hold him back.

‘Officer, I’m Dr. Greenfield.’ He reached into his inside coat pocket. ‘Here, I have my credentials.’

The officer scanned the card without taking it into his own hand. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late, doc.

Both vics are dead.’

‘Oh, I’m not here for them. I’m not that type of doctor. I’m a psychiatrist.’ He pointed with his nose to the barely visible Susan, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her hands cuffed behind her. ‘I’m here for her.’

‘You know this woman?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I do.’

The officer thought for a moment. ‘Alright. But don’t touch anything,’ he said, then stood aside and let Dr. Greenfield pass.

‘Yes, of course. I know my way around crime scenes.’ He went directly to Susan and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, still confused, but never so happy to see any one person in her entire life.

‘Dr. Greenfield! Oh thank God. Thank God you’re here,’ she said, and attempted to throw her arms around him, but her wrists just strained against the handcuffs. ‘They’re both dead, it was horrible, the whole thing it was-’ He put up both hands.

‘Calm down now, it’s alright.’ Her face changed. A realization came to her. ‘But, how-how did you know I was here?’

He gave her a confused look. ‘You called me and gave me this address. You said you needed my help immediately. Don’t you remember?’

‘No, I think I was in shock. I guess I called 911 too.’

‘Alright-alright. We’ll sort this all out, the important thing now is to just stay calm.’

‘Just please, tell them who I am so I can go home. I need to get out of here.’

‘Shhh-relax now,’ Greenfield said. He stood up and glanced around at the horror of it all. He saw the two bodies being examined by the paramedics and the policemen putting up yellow crime scene tape. More policemen showed up. Two plain clothes detectives were ready to ask questions.

He looked back at her with a compassionate yet worried expression.

‘Oh, Clarice,’ he said and swallowed the bile in his throat. ‘Clarice, what have you done?’

The End

Jeff Thompson

The Shadows Behind Me. Did you ever feel that prickling on the back of your neck? Or a cold sweat creep across your skin when you thought someone was watching you from the shadows?

The Shadows Behind Me is a new horror anthology from Floating Comma Press and we are looking for stories from all the edges of sanity.

From extreme to body, psychological to supernatural‌ send us your sickest, send us your most depraved and twisted, send us your most heart wrenchingly scary stories you can conjure up from the deepest, darkest recesses of your minds.

The nine circles of hell should hold no boundaries for your creations.

Bring forth the beasts, the blood and the banshee.

Word count 5-10k.

12pt double spaced manuscripts in Times new roman.

Closing date for submissions is October 1st 2017.

Anthology is exposure only (for now).

Let hell reign free.

Happy hunting Mark nye For more information, and submissions please email:

marknye83@gmail.com or adam.floatingcomma@gmail.com

Serrated Teeth It wasn’t great weather for the beach. The canvas of the deck chairs had started to stiffen in the cold air and, as there would be little call for them now, Bert’s self-allocated job would to be to keep warm with only one eye needed for the more intrepid, hardened punters.

Between hand-cupped secret draws on a stealthy cigarette he had time to examine and appreciate the deceptively simple design. Two pivots, one piece of canvas, nine pieces of two by one inch timber. He knew his deck chairs.

So, when autumn came; never stack away wet, grease on the bolts, oil on the wood, moth balls between every five chairs. The stains of summer beer, backy and babies could always be wiped or blancoed out.

He knew his punters too; who would be baffled by the mechanisms, who would expect it to be assembled and, on an insightful day, he could predict a low, high or medium setting. Folding chairs had been found in Egyptian tombs, but these were the apex of design, a classic flat pack to the seasons. Just a couple of inches thick when folded, they could be stored by tennis courts, cricket fields, in wooden huts, on piers and promenades, or below band stands and pavilions; a striped flag to the English summer. A seasonal banner that spring had come, to open like canvas butterflies after hibernating in creosoted sheds, stacked carefully behind rollers and tennis nets.

Another summer to spread out and celebrate, if the moths hadn’t got in there. It was all in the preparation; no food, no vermin, no rain, no rot, with care, no creaks, deck chairs. What a life!

A cosy winter packed tighter than horizontal penguins; then beaches, piers and sporting occasions, the occasional cruise. He remembered trying to unfold and erect his first one, when chair and stacker were the same height and getting trapped between the canvas jaws. The success of the back-bar fitting into the serrated teeth, smugly sitting in it, front bar under his knees, scuffed shoes and half-mast socks just dangling like swinging conkers, legs not yet long enough to touch the floor.

A rite de passage from his boyhood, like the first solo bicycle repair puncture when his thumbs were strong enough to replace the tyre over the rim without his father’s help, and the conspirator winks between them after smuggling forks as tyre levers.

The smell of his own cigarette fumed it back, enamel bowls to be sneaked out of kitchens to find the holes, given away by the smallest bubbles from hedgerow punctures, but always having to look for another one just in case.

He sighed the final drag on the twice used cigarette. It was now a chilly evening; he smelt that ice was in the air and to keep warm, decided to stack and re-arrange the deck chairs.

Steve Harrison

A Little Piece of Heaven The Last Supper Mid-Feb The weak light of a winter afternoon streamed in through the windows, catching the swirling dust motes in the air. Every surface in the small kitchen gleamed with excruciating, almost sterile, cleanness. She bustled around making lunch, chattering about odds and ends; the new hairstyle she had seen in Vogue, the promise of spring in the air, last night’s episode of Days of our Lives...

The delicious aroma of frying cabbage and roasting meat wafted through the room. He sat at the table, silent, and followed her with his eyes. His sallow complexion betrayed that he hadn’t been outside in a while; the contracted pupils and set of his mouth, a foul disposition and deep-seated loathing for what he saw.

Before the story begins, is it such a sin, For me to take what's mine, until the end of time?

November, four months ago It was an uncharacteristically cold morning for November, perhaps due to the downpour. Kathy put a plate of scrambled eggs and steak in front of Carl. Never taking his eyes off the paper, he stabbed the meat with his fork, raised it to his mouth and bit off a piece. He chewed it slowly for a moment, and then spat it out. He turned and glared at Kathy, a vein throbbing in his temple, and she shrank into the counter behind her as she saw the look on his face.

“You call this food?” he shouted, “damn it, how many times do I have to tell you not to overcook my meat?” Flinging the plate at Kathy, he grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the door.

She did not cry; not as she had for the first hundred times. Instead, she wiped her bleeding lip, and changed out of her white uniform, now covered in grease and bits of egg. On the way to the hospital, she went over a number of excuses, if someone asked about her newest cut.

Although she was no more than twenty-eight, she already had crow’s feet around her eyes. She had been married to Carl Newman, a construction worker, for over seven years now. A small-town girl with lank blonde hair and pale wide-set eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look, Kathy wasn’t much of a looker. So when Carl started paying attention to her she was overwhelmed and instantly infatuated with him. He had always been a bit bossy, but Kathy thought it was for the best, since she could never make up her mind about anything anyway and felt quite lost on her own.

Any charm and pleasantries, however, disappeared once they were married. Her first rude awakening came the morning after their wedding, when Carl burned her arm with his cigarette butt because he didn’t like her dress. Soon after, he insisted that they move away so he could find a better job. It was all downhill from there. To say that he had a temper was an understatement. Carl beat her up whenever he found a reason.

Almost laughed myself to tears, Conjuring her deepest fears Carl would come home drunk and take out his anger on Kathy. He’d beat her if the laundry wasn’t done or the bed wasn’t made or, sometimes, he beat her for no reason at all. But nothing riled him up like imperfect food. Whenever he found his meals less than to his satisfaction, be it slightly overdone meat or extra-sweet tea, Kathy inevitably bore the brunt. Having no friends or family in the new city to turn to, she covered her bruises with clothing and make-up and plodded on through life.

Kathy thought Carl might soften up if they had a child.

Before the possibilities came true, I took all possibility from you When Carl found out she was pregnant, though, he beat her until she lost the baby. With that, Kathy lost her final shred of hope.

So, it was an utterly defeated and broken woman who had experienced having her own cooking thrown at her that

November morning. Her only consolation was her job as a nurse; even at the hospital, though, she had no friends, because her husband forbade socialising with ‘those floozies with their sharp tongues’.

As she was doing her shift that afternoon, Kathy received a phone call at the hospital. Her husband had slipped off a wet girder and taken a twenty-five foot plunge. He was alive, but had sustained multiple fractures, and was in a hospital on the other side of the city. Dutiful wife as always, she rushed to be at his bedside. But for all her worry, Kathy couldn’t help suppressing a tiny, rogue part of her that was secretly glad that Carl would be too battered to be able to hurt her for a while.

Carl’s injuries tallied up to a couple of broken ribs, a broken hip, fractures in both arms and a leg, and a generous sprinkling of cuts and bruises. The only reason his head hadn’t been crushed was because he’d been wearing a helmet. By the time Kathy got there, he had been plastered up. Seeing her husband’s broken body helped some things fall into place for Kathy. She saw clearly for the first time how little she cared for his pain.

You had my heart, at least for the most part 'Cause everybody's gotta die sometime As Kathy was coming to terms with her apathy, Carl’s doctor walked in. “Well, it seems Mr Newman was very lucky to survive today,” he said. “We’ve set his fractures, and there’s enough morphine in his system to keep him under for a while,” he added, after consulting his chart.

“How long do you plan to keep him here, Doctor?”

“In cases where injuries are as extensive as Mr Newman’s, the patient should be kept under observation for quite some time…”

“I’m a qualified nurse, and I think my husband will recover better in the comfort of his home. I quite insist on having him released as soon as possible.” She quickly cut in.

Two days later, Carl was back in his own bed. During his brief stay at the hospital, he had been paranoid about how the establishment was stealing his precious money. Now that he was home, he was always yelling at Kathy; because his pillow needed fluffing, because the soup was cold, because the window was open…his temper had gotten worse.

“You bitch, you wanted this to happen, didn’t ya?” he’d say. “You never were much good, you filthy scum. And now you’re enjoying every minute of this”. She could see the devil burning in his eyes and, even though she knew Carl was powerless for the moment, the cruel stare sent chills down her spine.

Carl’s only friend, if you could call him that, was the one visitor he had on his sickbed. Apparently, he was just as pleasant at work as he was at home. As the winter set in and the snow deepened, Kathy became more and more detached from the world. She had taken time off from work to care for her husband, and hearing him shout all day long, Kathy thought she would soon lose what remained of her sanity. Stuck in this rut one evening, she was feeding Carl some broth when seemingly out of nowhere he jerked forward the only unbandaged part of his body and bit her on the wrist until his teeth drew blood.

“Take that, you little shit.” he sneered, licking his lips. In that moment, with Carl’s teeth impressed in her flesh, watching him lick her blood, Kathy saw Carl for the true monster he was. She saw he was less human than a rabid dog; for the first time in her life, she saw red. With all the strength she could muster, Kathy brought the soup bowl crashing down on Carl’s face; there was a crunch, and then there was blood all over from his shattered nose. Leaving Carl howling in pain and fury, Kathy gave herself a tetanus shot and savoured over and over that moment of daring.

After she had regained some semblance of control and Carl’s howling had subsided, Kathy made her way back into his room. Standing well away, lest he try anything else, she studied him with icy calm.

And I know, I know it's not your time But bye, bye There were trails of dried blood running down Carl’s cheek; much like the red lines his hand had left on her cheeks every time he slapped her. She felt like gloating.

“You will pay for this hard, woman. Wait till I walk again; you’ll wish you’d never been born,” he spat through a mouthful of dried blood.

“I don’t think you will walk again. In fact, I don’t think you’ll ever even see the sun again”.

Excerpts from Kathy's diary:

3rd Dec The haze infront of my eyes has cleared. I know now how much I've always loathed this man. Burning would be too merciful for him. I need to make this right, for my own peace of mind, and for my child’s sake. I will hurt him with everything he used to hurt me. This isn’t anger, so it cannot cool down. For the first time in a long time, I’m awake.

5th Dec We fell apart, let's make a new start 'Cause everybody's gotta die sometime, yeah yeah But baby don't cry I’ve decided what I’m going to do; I’ll cut off his limbs and feed them to him. It sickens me, but not more than the way be treated me. That I could come up with something this horrific is testament enough to how Carl has corrupted me. The only question that remains is what will happen if someone shows up. If I cut off the plaster before and wrap it up with bandages after, it shouldn’t be too noticeable. It probably won’t come to it, but I can always sedate Carl if we have a visitor. It’s his own fault really that no one comes; he was such a piece of shit. It’s like he’s been digging his own grave all these years. Oh I love the irony of this.

8th Dec I did it today. Got his axe out of the shed, heated it to red-hot on the stove, and chopped off his right hand. Got a kick in the ribs, and a bruise to show for it. But it’s all worth it; the look of horrified surprise on his face when he realized what I was going to do, and the curses and threats following thick and strong. Carl doesn’t seem to have accepted how completely at my mercy he is.

Now possibilities I'd never considered, Are occurring the likes of which I'd never heard

His screams are music to my ears. But the TV is on and the volume is up; I don’t exactly want anyone else to hear my private concert.

10th Dec Threw up twice in the process, and it took all my determination, but I finally managed to make a soup of Carl’s hand. Fed half of it to him; I didn’t give him anything to eat in the last two days, so he was fairly ravenous. Midway I told him what he was eating. He tried to throw up, but that’s not easy when you’re bedridden, short of one hand, and have the other plastered up.

Just ended up coughing ‘till his eyes were ready to pop out. Oh the helpless malice in his eyes! Calling me some choice names is all he can do. They say revenge is a dish best served cold; I don’t think they’ve tried my soup.

28th Dec Carl is now missing both feet as well. Needless to say, he wasn’t very enthusiastic about meals. But that starts changing when you go without food or water for 5 days in a row.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but Carl is not going to survive. For the most part, neither will my sanity.

I’ve been having strange dreams; I can never quite remember them, but they hover on the edges of my consciousness all day.

Too many times I’ve woken up soaked in perspiration. I could really use a good night’s sleep.

15th Jan He refused to eat. Spat out everything. I think he’s trying to starve himself to death. It’s not surprising; I would too if I was eating myself. But I’m not going to let him go with it so easily. I blocked his nose and stuffed his mouth with steak, so he had to chew and swallow before he could breathe.

Meanwhile, my reality and dreams are starting to blend together. Sometimes I think I see someone standing behind me, just outside my peripheral vision. I can never make out a face or body, but I can sense them. I think I’m losing my mind.

26th Jan I had left one hand so it would remind Carl of what he’d lost (right arm, both legs up to the knees). But at some point he secreted a fork and today he tried to stab me in the eye with it. He missed, but gave me 3 scratches down my cheek. I think he’s trying to antagonize me into killing him quickly, since he couldn’t starve himself to death. I’ll take away his left arm today; the meat seems to be running out quicker than expected. It’s surprising, since there’s only one person who’s eating it (no really, where is it going?). Maybe the dog got to it.

My shadow visitor does not creep me out anymore. Sometimes I feel like I know this person, but I can’t quite place it.

And a word to the wise when the fire dies You think it's over but it's just begun

I feel a connection, as if the person is communicating with me; I often have thoughts in my head that are not mine and I just know that it’s the phantom talking to me.

The Last Supper “Here you go; your roasted tongue with a side of vegetables. Medium-rare, just the way you like it” said Kathy, putting down a plate in front of Carl. His stomach turned at the sight of the food, knowing what it was. But he hadn’t eaten in a week, and it smelled so good… The anguish and revolt brought tears to his eyes.

I gotta make up for what I've done 'Cause I was all up in a piece of heaven While you burned in hell, no peace forever “The sooner you eat, the happier you will be.” Kathy started cutting up the not-quite-cooked meat. Carl opened his mouth to curse her, but all that came out was a gurgling sound. Nonetheless, his expressions communicated exactly how he felt.

“Winter is over. The roads are opening. I’m done with you” Kathy mused, as she sharpened the knife. The honed edge glittered like a diamond. “I’ve used against you everything you used against me. Or maybe not quite everything.” She drew the knife like a sabre.

Must have stabbed him fifty fucking times I can't believe it Ripped his heart out right before his eyes Eyes over easy, eat it, eat it, eat it “Au revoir, mon cher.” She wiped the blood off her chin.

The Lyrics used are borrowed from the song ‘A Little Piece of Heaven’- property of Avenged Sevenfold

Anna Radhid

The Greatest American Diner The neon sign in the diner’s window glowed, the name flickered between variations that never revealed its full form. In downtown Milwaukee the diner was well regarded for having the best burgers in town and even on a week night the establishment was busy. The kitchen was a hive of frantic activity as the chefs and kitchen helpers worked to ensure that the food was served in good time, knowing that nothing was worse when eating out than waiting ages for your order.

The burgers that the diner was so revered for were going fast as usual, the general consensus being that the meat was so tasty and tender that no matter what, other burger joints just couldn’t match the burgers at Jeffrey’s. The recipe was a closely guarded secret and only one man knew the ingredients and the way to prepare it; one of the chefs had tried for ages to replicate the mixture but had not even come close.

The meat was always freshly delivered and always came ready minced. Every Monday a delivery van would arrive and the meat would be unloaded and placed in the kitchen’s ageing freezer. Whatever hadn’t been used by the following Sunday was discarded and a new batch would be delivered Monday. This is how it had been ever since the Diner opened five years ago.

This week was going to be one of the most important in the Diner’s history; a high-profile food critic was rumoured to be visiting local establishments in the run up to a contest to find Milwaukee’s best eateries. No one had any idea when, or even if, the mystery diner would drop in, but the owner of the diner had made sure everyone who worked there was ready for anything, telling them that the food must be as good as it could be, no mistakes, no mess ups - everyone had to be on top form.

In anticipation of the visit, a new meat had been delivered on Monday, slightly darker and with a hint of oriental spice.

As well as the usual minced delivery, one box of specially prepared steaks had been delivered. It was rumoured that the critic was a steak aficionado and had destroyed other restaurants’ reputations with his cutting words - especially when detailing the failings of any steak he took a disliking to.

As the dining area filled up, the manager noticed a man sitting all alone at a corner table, not unusual in itself - but this customer was quietly whispering into a hand held tape recorder. The manager couldn’t hear what he was saying but his suspicion was aroused; was this the food critic? Was this the test they had been waiting for? He hurried into the kitchen to inform the chef and his team that this could be their moment. The chef’s face was a picture, but underneath the fear was a confidence, because he knew the ingredients he had were the best in town.

At that precise moment the man’s order was received: one steak, rare, with a side order of Homestyle fries. The chef immediately grabbed one of the new style steaks. The meat was dark like it had been stained with a rub or marinated in something, and the actual texture was like pork.. but the colour wasn’t quite right. As he heated the griddle pan with oil he noticed very little fat was present on the flesh. The meat sizzled angrily as it hit the oil, sealing in the juices and natural spices present in the meat. The aroma that filled the kitchen was intense, and a quick turn of the steak revealed a beautiful seal on the steak. The fries were prepared and in a flash the steak was done. Heat rose from the still cooking meat and the smell was incredible. Chef hoped the critic would look kindly upon his work.

The plate was placed in front of the diner, and his eyes lit up at the steak before him, perfectly presented with a wonderful colour to it. He took his knife and sliced through it with ease. The flesh was perfectly cooked with just the right amount of resistance to his knife. The meat melted in his mouth and the spices it contained danced on his tongue, though as hard as he tried, he couldn’t identify them.

The staff watched intently from the open kitchen as the man slowly retrieved the mini recorder from his suit pocket and started to talk slowly into it, pausing only briefly to savour more of the delicious steak.

Having finished the steak he wiped his mouth and beckoned over the manager. The manager arrived readily, he was a little nervous as to what he was being called over for, but he needn’t have worried.

“That is quite simply the best steak I have ever tasted,” said the critic.

“Thank you,” replied the manager. “I’ll be sure to let the chef and the owner know what you said. They will be delighted, I’m sure.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” continued the man, the taste of the steak’s heavenly juices still fresh in his mouth. “Can I have the owner’s name? If you don’t mind, I’d like to mention it in my review. I’m a food critic, you see.”

“Oh wow,” replied the manager in a suitably shocked way which hid his previous suspicions.

“Certainly, he’s a great man, and sources all our meat locally. His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Dahmer, D-A-H-M-E-R...”

Matt Earl

Zofia ****J**** There are two indisputable facts about women.

First: every generation is more attractive than the last. It is true. My own generation of women either resemble hippopotami, or disheveled alpacas. Look around you, see the younger generation. If you had to share a classroom with these girls you’d spend your entire adolescence with your dick hard enough to pole-vault with. Instead I was born to a generation of girls who used hydrogenated fat instead of soap. Clearasil would have had to be a nuclear device to have had a hope of cracking through the crusty acne pandemic.

Second: foreign girls are more beautiful than English girls. Like the girl in this Polaroid. Zofia.

See how her dusky hair falls against her left cheek, and how the candle is reflected in her pupils. Two little stars. She wears no lipstick, but still her lips are full, and as red as Rimmel Kate. I have kept this photo in a drawer for twenty years, only bringing her out after a few long draughts of Glenfiddich. I would hold her between my middle finger and thumb for a few minutes, before leaning her against the half empty whisky bottle and striking a match for a cigar. Soon I would be looking at her through curved wisps of smoke. I took this photo myself when I was twenty five. ****Z**** ‘You want to take my picture?’ I suck on my lip for moment, and glance at the clock. ‘Why?’ ‘Why not? You look beautiful, Zofia.’ I smile, it is hard not to. There is nothing exotic about James. No muscles, he’s not rich, and his face is beginning to crack around the eyes. But James is different. He speaks softly, like he is trying not to wake a baby. I doubt that he has changed the way he dresses since he was fourteen, and his hair probably hasn’t seen a comb since Margaret Thatcher was in power. But he thinks I am beautiful – he tells me I’m beautiful.

‘It’s late. I should be going.’ As if to enter the argument, the cuckoo shot from the clock and shrieked. Half past midnight.

‘Come on,’ his words barely a whisper. ‘Just one, it will only take a moment. Something to remember you by.’ My stomach reminded me, by the way it tumbled, James would be leaving in the morning. His week was over, his small suitcase packed and lying by the door. He is lucky. He gets to leave my father. His work done, he can pack up his bags and head south again. He can go and find a wife, have a child, buy a big car. James leaves me tomorrow, with the shouting and the endless stretch of trees.

‘Only one?’

‘Only one.’ He leans over the end of the bed and picks up his old camera. I had never seen a Polaroid before, not in real life. Sure, there were scenes in films or on television, but I had never seen one close enough to touch.

There is nothing more romantic than being able to capture a moment and copy it immediately. I have a camera myself, a Kodak. I can take thirty-two pictures on one film. But then I take it to a pharmacy, and somebody else mixes chemicals, tells me to wait an hour, and walks away with five pounds from my purse. By the time you get the pictures back, someone else has seen your moment. Then it is no longer yours. It is a public thing. That point in time you had singled out as important enough to capture forever, is delivered back to you in a small folder with a receipt stapled to the front. Kodak cannot keep your secrets. Not like a Polaroid.

I brush my hair to the left of my face, feeling soft strands tickle my neck and wait. I do not blink at the flash. He sighs before handing the photograph to me. She is a beautiful girl, the one on the silky sheet. This is what he sees, what he believes to be beautiful. I enjoy being beautiful, it makes a warm tingle spread through my chest, and I realise I want to be more beautiful for him. So I stand up, look him directly in the eye and drop my dress to the floor. James puts the camera back under the bed. ****J**** I worked for her father. Well, I worked for a company who worked for her father. Lukasz Sawiak: a balding moon with a Stalin moustache. He’s the sort of guy who believes in pin-stripe suits and inflation. Behind those iron-grey eyes was a mind that broke the world down into numbers, conversion rates, and graphs. He washed up at Dover around the time Hotel California was released. By the time the millennium had stopped scaring the shit out of everyone, he owned a series of housing projects in Lancashire.

I worked for an independent multimedia company back then, as their make-up artist. Lukasz wanted an advert for local

television, and we were in his price range. Price range, of course, meaning we weren’t trying to bleed him for too much money. I came to learn: anyone holding an invoice was a mosquito trying to suck him pale. It is amazing they brought me along at all, the amount of cuts he tried to make. But then, it wouldn’t surprise me if he demanded to look good for the video.

He should have asked for a plasterer. His skin was so cratered I nearly added poly-filler to my kit. He sat as stiff as a cardboard, saying nothing, grunting his disapproval every so often. The longer it took, the more impatient he grew. Hissing long breaths, tutting loud enough to make me jump. When I had finished, he stood up and walked out without saying a word to me. Fucking arrogant asshole.

I was packing my kit away, when a young girl walked in. Blonde pigtails, knee length skirt, her small pink tongue resting between her teeth. She had these thick eyelashes that framed her umber eyes. With her first smile, I knew I was in trouble.

‘Are you the makeup?’ She moved around the edge of the small, tracing her hand against the milk wall.

‘Yes, that’s me. The makeup.’ I focused on my eyeliner case. Putting my pencils back in shade order.

‘Funny.’

‘What’s funny?’ Midnight blue next to navy blue next to royal blue.

‘I thought you would be a woman.’ I could feel her coming up behind me.

‘Well I’m James. Not a woman.’

‘You have so many colours James.’ Two ivory fingers reached over my hand and picked up a subtle green eyeliner pencil. I snatched it back, putting next to the olive before snapping the case shut. She smiled. ‘This is an expensive looking case. You take care of your pencils.’

‘I look after my tools.’

‘And what is in the bag?’ She pointed to the sports bag resting by chair on which her father sat.

‘More tools.’

‘Foundation?’

‘Yes.’ ‘Mascara.’

‘Yes.’ ‘Can I look?’

‘These are my work tools.’

‘Can you make me pretty?’ She sat on the chair, leaning forward with her knees together. She pouted her lips, and then giggled. I looked at her lips. You could tell by the way the lipstick cracked at the corner of her mouth, and by the small flakes on her bottom lip, that her father didn’t think her beauty was worth much investment. Her foundation was streaky and un even, and coal clumps clung to the ends of her lashes. Lukasz probably bought some supermarket own-brand monstrosities for her to slather all over her face.

‘How old are you?’

‘Old enough for makeup.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Can you make me pretty?’

‘I’m a professional, I could make you look like Jennifer Aniston if I wanted to.’

‘I don’t want to look like her. Everyone looks like her.’ She stood up and smoothed her skirt against her long legs.

‘Who’d you want to look like?’

‘Me. Zofia. But beautiful.’ She sat down again and waited.

****Z****

I have seen sex before. The passion, the face contorting in some sort of painful euphoria. A woman’s leg wraps around a man’s back. A man slides up and down on her skin.

Angelina Jolie & Ethan Hawke – Taking Lives. I saw sex there.

It has always looked slick, and warm. Two people without clothes, eyes closed, heads pointing in different directions.

There is always a steady rhythm as the bedclothes rise and fall like the chest of a deep sleeper. Sometimes the two people exchange deep kisses between sighs and loud breaths.

Reese Witherspoon & Ryan Phillipe – Cruel Intentions. I saw sex there.

I lie back against the headboard as James pulls his t-shirt over his head. His chest is carpeted in nut-brown hair, longer hairs spiral out from his nipples. The hair trails down over his paunchy stomach and clusters around his navel. I watch as he struggles with the clasp of his belt, until he forces his jeans down around his ankles.

Ralph Fiennes & Kirstin Scott Thomas – The English Patient. I saw sex there.

We are having sex. Slimy with sweat, chafing and bristly between my legs and against my breasts. I let him in me, and I am full up from the groin, I am sore from the inside. I am stretched and battered. He kisses me between grunts, pinches my skin between thrusts. My neck cramps at the headboard. I gasp and he drives into me harder. I gasp because he is knocking the wind out of me. He shudders and yelps like a wounded dog – and it is over.

Amy Smart & Jason Statham – Crank. I saw sex there.

I smell sex on my bed, the sour thick stench of it. The gel of sex is seeping between my thighs, and onto the gritty blanket covering his bed. James rolls off me and lies next to me trying to control his raspy breath. I put my fingers into the wet dribbles. It is yellow and red, thick like mucus.

On the end of my fingers – in my prints. I see sex there. Dripping sex. Stinking sex.

‘You OK?’ His voice sounds cracked – sanded down.

‘Yes.’ ‘You’re very quiet.’

‘I have to go James.’

‘What?’

‘Before my Dad comes to find me.’

James never says anything as I scrabble from the bed to pull on my clothes. Sex has misted the room, made the air heavy and pungent. I bid James goodbye as I pull the heavy door behind me, and wonder if I would ever smell that again. If I would ever feel that again.

Zofia & James – A polaroid moment. The sex still hangs there. ****J**** It isn’t like time stood still, not really. She sat on the chair, clutching the hem of her skirt between her legs whilst I looked for colours and shades within my bag. She watched me as I lined up my brushes and pencils, as I studied her skin tone, putting my hand between her skin and the light. I lined pencils against her cheeks to compare them with her eyes.

I chose an opal blue pencil for her eyes.

I smoothed her skin underneath my thumb. A face has always had a landscape of its own, the valleys of the eye sockets, the hills of the cheeks. My thumb traced the journey, across the glassy smoothness of her wide chin. There was a little scar in the shallow brook between her jaw and her ear. I ran a finger over it, feeling it bobble and scrape.

I turned her head to view her profile. My eyes followed the sheer fall of her forehead and slid down her triangular nose, rounded at the end. Her lips were full cylinders, that sucked two dark dimples into her cheek when she smiled.

We locked eyes for a moment, before I pulled my gaze away to take in the rest of her shape. In one breath, her graceful head movements – her slender neck, she reminded me of a swan. In the next she reminded me of a china doll. Her smoothness belied her age, the glitter in her eye shadow told me she was little more than a child.

I noticed a tiny chip of lipstick on her teeth as she smiled, and I found myself watching her mouth move as she began to talk. No matter how hard I search my memories, how I analyse them, I cannot recall what she was saying. I don’t know if I ever heard what she was trying to say.

Her lips moved with all the hypnotic choreography of a cobra, and I was just a rat watching with glazed over eyes waiting for her to strike. They trembled at the end of long words, and shimmered when slipping into the shape of an O. ‘So are you going to make me beautiful?’ She nuzzled into the hand I had left on her cheek.

‘I’m sorry.’ I snatched my hand away, and began putting my brushes back in their little leather case.

‘But you were going to make me beautiful?’

‘I can’t.’

‘But you said you would.’

‘There is nothing I can do.’ I put everything away.

****Z**** My Dad is waiting at the kitchen table, drumming his finger on his favourite coffee mug. There is a cigar smoking in the ashtray, resting between the carcasses of three other butts. He is leaning back against the dark wood chair-back. He looks at me as I drop my handbag on an empty chair and walk to the sink to pour myself a glass of water.

‘You are late.’ His voice is controlled and thick. I know he is angry with me, but not sure why. Is it because I am late home? Does he know where I have been? Who I have been with? What I have been doing.

‘I am sorry.’

‘Why are you so late?’ He picks up his cigar and draws heavily from its moist tip. The cherry flares up like an angry star.

‘I forgot the time.’

‘You never forget the time. And where did you go?’

‘I was just walking.’

‘And where did you walk?’

‘Not far.’

Father stands up and throws the remaining dregs of his coffee into the sink. He pulls a bottle of vodka from a cupboard and set two glasses on the table.

‘You visited the cottages. Edgars saw you.’

‘Father…’

‘Which one was it? Who were you walking to?’ He poured two glasses of Vodka, and pushed one across the table and motioned to the chair. I sit down and drank. I can feel the Vodka warming my throat and spreading to my chest.

‘Was it the tall man with the camera?’

‘No Father.’ His lip twitched.

‘The long-haired man who fixed the lights?’

‘No Father.’

‘Was it the chubby one who played with makeup?’

‘No Father.’ Father pauses for a moment, as though he could see through my lie and was considering his next line. I was confused about my feelings for James. No it wasn’t love, not in the fairy tale way. Not in any practical way. But I like him, he had made me feel beautiful. He seemed hot and hungry, like no other boy I had ever met. I do not want Father to hurt him.

‘Then it was Austin, the director.’

I said nothing. I had not spoken to Austin. James had talked of him, how he wears certain colour ties on certain days, and how his wardrobe held more than fifty different suits. James had never seen him in a pair of jeans, or dressed down any further than not wearing a jacket with his trousers.

‘Austin is married Zofia, he has children, one of them is the same age as you.’ Father’s brow scrunches above his nose.

‘You are just a girl.’

‘I am a woman.’

‘You are fifteen.’

‘I am growing up.’

Father seems to throw the Vodka from his glass into his mouth. A practiced move, only seen when he is angry.

‘I invite these people to stay in my cottages, it is business for me. These people have my hospitality; you are not part of this business. They did not pay for my daughter. This Austin has no morals, and he has betrayed my trust.’

‘Father, I…’ ‘I tell you these things, Zofia, because you know what happens next.’

‘Please Father.’ But he has already left the room with big angry strides.

****J**** I never saw Zofia again. She left me naked, shivering in the post-coital chill. I should never have let her in. She had turned up at my door smiling, with a small flask of vodka in her hand. When she left I picked up the polaroid from the dresser.

I awoke still holding the polaroid when the fire-engines screamed outside. Austin’s cottage was burning, flames licking at the thatch from the bedroom window. I stared from my door at the crowd gathered around the house. Despite the thunderous crackle, and the hiss of the flames I stared out at a macabre tableau. People stood like mannequins, jaws locked wide open watching the arcade flick its orange tongue from the windows of the cottage. The ground had frozen at my feet, and I watched.

I just watched.

When the dawn light began to lighten the sky, I was still standing, gazing at the thin black Nazgul smoke disappearing.

There was no sign of Austin. The mannequins had been pushed back by the fire brigade, and an ambulance idled on the gravel driveway until someone shouted something from the house. A fireman exited the house carrying a smouldering black carcass.

I pitched forward.

The paramedics and the fire brigade stood around the charred something.

****Z****

I made it to the cottages the next morning, by then there was a burnt shell sitting in the middle of the park. James was sitting on his doorstep, his face as pale as paper. I looked at him, with his tear tracks leaving slug trails on his cheeks. I was sat in Father’s Land Rover, the vibration of the engine purring through its green hulk.

Father didn’t get out of the car, not to offer his consolations. He just looked at his burnt cottage with an indescribable look. His face was still, his eyebrows dormant and thick. He lit a cigar and began to drive off.

James looked over momentarily, straight into my window. I mouthed the words I’m sorry.

And I was sorry.

Genuinely sorry.

Cameron Grace

Oi Human

Why is my bowl empty?

Have you run out of Whiskers, has the metal meat scooper-upperer broke?

And what has happened to all the milk?

I can get water and dry food in prison.

Has the metal meat scooper-upperer broke?

And why is my toilet still in the box?

Have you run out of sharp gravel?

Has the plastic poop scooper-upperer broke?

Silly human.

Larry The Cat