PAGE TU��E� MAGAZ��E
VOLUME 2
EMERSON COLLEGE
�
DEPARTMENT OF WRITING, LITERATURE & PUBLISHING
"Whirlpool" © Tatum Rogers, 2022
"Neither of These Men Are Named Steve" © Susan Matteucci, 2022
"Face Thieves" © Tim O'Neal, 2021
"Shapes of Warmth" © TJ O'Shea, 2022
"The Witch of Briar Wood" © Anna Carson, 2022
"Mystery Man" © Mary Krakow, 2022
"Names" © Thomas Gaffney, 2022
"The Seven Secret Discoveries of the Captain of the Cantata Lucania Upon the Occasion of Running Aground" © Ben Jackson, 2022
"Measurements" © Hannah Barclay, 2022
"The Feeding" © Charlie Williams, 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author and/or publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages for review.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Images by Rifka Handelman
Book Design by Ryan Yau and Rifka Handelman
Logo and Icons by Alanna Smith
Printed and bound in the USA
First Printing July 2022
Published by Page Turner Magazine
Emerson College Boston, MA 02116
Visit pageturnermag.com
For every writer who conquered the obstacle of a blank page
OUR STAFF
Editor-in-Chief & Board Chair
Katsumi Sterling �
Managing Editor
Jen Wong
Editorial Assistants
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Social Media Manager
Jill Zacchia
Social Media Assistant
Elizabeth Vantangoli
Copy Chief
Tess Rossi
Copy Editors
Ghanima Emmanuelle Sol
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Design and Layout Editor
Rifka Handelman
Submissions Manager
& Board Co-Chair
Hancine Mok
Submissions Assistant
Hannah Hillis
Comm. and Admin. Manager
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Features Editor
Maxine Shen
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Board Members
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Maxine Shen
Jill Zacchia
a letter from our guest a letter from the editor-in-chief a letter from the board whirlpool neither of these men are named steve face thieves shapes of warmth the witch of briar wood mystery man names the seven secret discoveries of the captain of the cantata lucania on the occasion of running aground measurements the feeding with gratitude author bios
A LETTER FROM OUR GUEST
PROFESSOR JESSICA TREADWAY
The phrase “speculative fiction” has always struck me as a little redundant. Isn’t fiction, by definition, a work of speculation by its author? Yet I understand the usefulness of a single term embracing stories devoted to science fiction, fantasy, horror, magic, and other genres that find a home in Page Turner Magazine—including realism tinged by a sense of these other worlds.
The Chilean-American author Isabel Allende advises us to “Write what should not be forgotten,” and this issue is chock full of stories that stay with me after I’ve turned the page (or, to be more precise, logged out). Whether their official label may be “horror” or “historical mystery” or “graveyard romance gone wrong” (okay, I made that one up!), they present us with vivid characters, settings, and a great deal of food for thought when we set out to speculate What if?
In my workshops in the Popular Fiction MFA program at Emerson College, our weekly modules are devoted to specific elements of fiction-writing craft: characterization, setting, dialogue, plot construction, etc. Yet, there has to be something else, something more—let’s call it the “spark”—for a story to grab readers by the lapels, as the saying goes. It may take the form of an overarching question the story asks; an invented world the reader sinks into and doesn’t want to leave; or such compelling evocation of characters’ internal landscapes that we feel we are those characters, succeeding and suffering along with them, cheering them on or, sometimes, rooting for their failure.
I believe that this is what the art of fiction can do uniquely: allow us to inhabit other human beings and become them for a while. That’s what the authors of these stories invite you to do, and I hope you have the same rich reading experience I did in accepting that invitation. Congratulations to the writers included here, and to the dedicated staff at Page Turner Magazine, for so impressively expanding the horizons of our speculative realm.
Jessica
Treadway march 17, 2022
A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
KATSUMI STERLING
The longer I stare at a blank page the less I write. Most, if not all authors, have faced this hurdle. It is often the start of those murky middles. They tend to pop up as the dandelions of our lives, whether that’s within the draft of a book, a school year, or a pandemic. Hurdles are the part of the outline we avoid or that doesn’t exist yet. This buffering is the question that generations have pondered on once they set a goal: How to get there.
I’d like to propose that it’s not the journey that will carry us to the richest final chapter, but endurance. My grandfather used to tell me to be like bamboo. The first time I heard this I thought he meant steady and strong. He let me learn from my mistakes a few times before he told me, “Be like bamboo. The higher you grow, the deeper you bow.” It’s the mindset.
Be a lifelong student. Stay consistently open to the new and different. Accept more, not less. These messages are reflected in genre fiction. They introduce the unique and defy odds. They introduce what we love and reveal what we don’t know. A teacher once told me: “The day you stop learning is the day you start dying.” As writers, our words and actions are subject to the scrutiny of time in memoriam. It is my hope that our esteemed readers see a reflection of themselves or a question they’ve been pondering within the rousing pages of Volume 2.
May you, avid reader, find solid directions, seek knowledge with humility, and keep the future ever-present in your mind.
katsumi sterling march 21, 2022
A LETTER FROM THE BOARD
HANCINE MOK
My belief in magic was a driving force of my childhood. Between my small world of school and homework, reality was too normal. Every choice eventually led to the dreaded dimension of taxes. As I grew older, reality became a little too harsh. I learned that no matter how hard I tried, time wouldn’t stop and neither would life. But I knew there was one way I could pause everything around me and in the world: reading. Falling into fantastical worlds and lives completely unlike mine are not only for fun but for the sake of my overactive imagination and well-being. In recent years, it’s become ever more apparent how important it is to take care of oneself, both physically and mentally. Genre fiction does this wonderful thing of making the audience believe. The characters are not people you can meet, and the worlds are not ones you can live in, but the
emotions that come from reading about them last long after the final page. And I, for one, enjoy taking a break with a story where the stakes feel so real yet there is the safety of an ending—and it’s usually a good one.
Page Turner Magazine is a place for all popular fiction to thrive, a space for writers and readers to immerse themselves in whichever genres they like. This publication has become incredibly dear to me, and I’ve been so honored to help lead the magazine’s board and to see how we’ve grown in just a year—and with so much room to go! With the support of our faculty advisor and through the hard work of all our staff, of Emerson College students and alumni, we are now able to share our second volume with you all.
I’m proud to present Page Turner Magazine Volume 2.
hancine mok march 21, 2022
TURN THE PAGE...
WHI� LPOOL
TATUM ROGERS
Seven
The first time Levi meets Lull, he’s playing in the creek out back like he always does, soaked to the bone. A spot in the center of the water begins to swirl, whipping up into foam. Lull emerges out of the sediment, soaked to the soul.
Fourteen
Levi and Lull have their first fight during a hot muggy summer. Levi thinks it's over something silly, the state of garbage in the creeks loamy banks, but Lull is a whirlpool, mad like a hurricane: it’s my home, he keeps saying, it's my home. Lull is gone for a week, and Levi’s mom comments on how thin he’s getting.
Seventeen
When Levi realizes he is in love with Lull, he’s sitting on the old swing set. The rain is pouring, and when Lull steps out of the tree line he is blue-green and glistening like the ocean. Levi thinks he wants to drown.
Twenty
Lull can’t follow where Levi goes, but Levi goes anyway. He’s a junior in college when he explains what a nixie is to his “Intro to German Mythology” class. That night the creek floods, and Levi’s mom calls to tell him the old swing set got swept away in it.
Twenty-Two
Levi doesn’t regret it when he quits college to move back home; he and Lull talk about futures, they talk about houseboats. Levi stays at the creek until his hands and feet are so wrinkled they’re unrecognizable. He never feels waterlogged.
NEITHE� OF THESE MEN A� E NAMED STEVE SUSAN MATTEUCCI
Maybe if I hadn’t opened the door? No. The shades were open, he would have seen me. Maybe if I hadn’t been home. Mmm… no, I’d have just come home to David Abernath sitting on my couch asking how come I didn’t have HBO.
“Hey, you’re smart.”
He stepped on my foot. David Abernath knocked on my door, complimented me, and then stepped on my foot whilst entering my home.
What were the odds he just wanted to borrow some salt? Could David Abernath forget to buy salt? Bold of me to assume David Abernath would do something as thoughtless as forget to buy salt. Bold of me to assume David Abernath used salt and did not season his food by sheer will alone.
“Thanks,” I said in response.
I really would have rather said anything else. Like “Oh, not really” or “Hi, David, what brings you by?” or “Get out of my house.”
Okay, I guess I understood where he was coming from. I was the stereotypical smart guy that you manipulate into setting up your printer. I graduated from MIT in only three years and now I work for NASA and my IQ is 155 blah blah blah.
When people ask my mom how I’m doing nowadays, she tells them I live next to David Abernath.
“Did you watch the news yesterday?” said David Abernath.
Yes. I had watched the news yesterday. But I doubt he was talking about MSNBC. What news channel did David Abernath watch? More importantly, did that news channel know David Abernath watched them?
To avoid the lesson about how I should really be watching this specific news channel at exactly 8:30–10:30 at night on Thursdays even though I work for most of that, I decided to play it safe.
“No, I missed it.”
“What? You should always watch the news. You can’t just be blind to world events, Marty.”
My name is Martin. But that really doesn’t matter.
“What was on the news last night?”
“Some scientists successfully sent a tennis ball back in time.”
I had heard about that. Not because it was on the news, but because my friend from MIT was on the team that did it. Two years ago, when they first started their research, they left a bucket of purple paint in one of their labs overnight, documenting exactly where it was and when it was there. Two days ago, they put a tennis ball back in that exact spot, slightly elevated, so it was exactly in the middle of where
this bucket of paint was, and sent it back in time. The ball came back purple.
“Yeah, I heard that. What about it?”
David Abernath’s jaw dropped. “What about it?! Time travel! It’s real, it’s here, let’s go back in time and kill Hitler!”
I was still standing awkwardly in the doorway while David Abernath was lounging on my couch. I moved closer, but left the door open as a subtle “please don’t stay very long.”
“We can’t change the past. The group’s studies showed that we’re on a fixed timeline.”
“Yeah, yeah, the news explained it, but there’s got to be a loophole right? You’re smart, explain it to me.”
I bit my lip. This was science. Science didn’t have loopholes. But how could I explain that to Abernath, the loophole king? I glanced at my end-table. Thankfully, I had cleaned yesterday, so the Inc. Magazine showing Abernath on the cover with the words “Entrepreneur of the Year” was not there.
But I’ve never been one to give up explaining a complex scientific discovery. I sat down on the chair Abernath gestured toward. You know, my chair. Next to my couch. In my home. And I rubbed the back of my neck to vent some frustration.
“Basically, the timeline is set in stone. The team that got that ball to travel back in time could have figured out they succeeded before they actually did it.”
“How?”
“If, two years ago, they had gone and checked that bucket of paint to see if there was a tennis ball, they would have found a tennis ball. The tennis ball was always in the ball of paint.”
“Then why didn’t they go and check to see if there was a tennis ball?”
“Because if there hadn’t been a tennis ball, they would
have known that it didn’t work. And that they didn’t invent time travel.”
“So you can only do stuff that has already been done.”
“Yeah, so to go to the Hitler example. You couldn’t go back in time and stop Hitler from doing all those things, because we know he did.”
“What would happen if I tried?”
“You’d fail.”
“Even if Hitler was just a defenseless baby?”
“Yes. Or, you’d kill the baby of Mr. and Mrs. Hitler, and then they adopt another baby, name him Adolf, because you were unaware the last baby’s name was actually Fred or something, and that baby becomes Hitler and it’s just a part of history that was never really documented.”
“Okay, you see, that’s what the news said too.” Abernath was up and pacing my living room like he was in his office in his billion dollar company. “But what if you weren’t trying to change the past?”
“Exactly. The team is trying to get funding to create time travel safe for historians, so we have a better understanding of history.”
“Right, right, but that wouldn’t do us any good. I still want to change things, I just don’t want to change the past.”
I said nothing. This is why Abernath is so famous, I thought, because he says crazy shit like this with such certainty everyone just nods along, for fear of being the stupid one.
“What?”
“So, my house has got a foundation problem, right?”
I blinked, surprised at the turn of events, but I didn’t interrupt him.
“Right, yeah, and the guy says that it’s either really simple, and they’ve just got to replace something and it’ll take, like,
a day, and cost me, like, 80 bucks. Or the guys who made my house back in the 70s didn’t put in enough support beams because they ran out of money and my house is literally falling down, and if that’s true… Well, if that’s true then it’d cost less to buy another house, to be honest.”
“Oh?… That’s—that’s terrible.” I’ve never been a good liar. Luckily Abernath wasn’t really listening.
“But they don’t know which it is until they look.”
Abernath looked at me like I was supposed to suddenly be on the same wavelength as him. I just stared at the man, trying not to gape.
“They don’t know yet.”
“I… I don’t get it.”
“If I were to go back in time to the 70s, right? And I was to go to the crew that was making my house, and I was to, you know, snoop around. I could see if they had enough money to put the support beams in. And if they didn’t, I could give them the money! I could ensure that the beams were there, and that it was the other problem that was, well, that was the problem. Get it?”
Did I get it? Abernath wasn’t necessarily changing the past, he would be just… ensuring the future. So it worked the way he wanted. Sure, he was doing it for selfish reasons but that opened up an entirely new possibility… Theoretically, they could go back in time and fix anything, as long as they could do it without anyone realizing. Because they wouldn’t really be changing it…
“Yeah, you get it! Don’t you get it? This fixed timeline thing, it’s not a curse, it’s a blessing. No butterfly effect, no altering the space-time continuum. No matter what happens you will come back to the same reality you left, but you can still mold the reality to your liking! The best of both worlds!”
David Abernath hopped up and down. He actually hopped. In my living room.
“So when we do this, we’re going to need to create a time machine that’s a lot smaller, and we’re going to have to choose when to come back, so how would we do this?”
“We”? Had he just said “we”? Like, me and him “we”? Like me working with David Abernath? Had this conversation turned to the wistful thought of David Abernath moving away to the sudden use of the pronoun “we”?
“Uh… what do you mean, ‘when we do this’?”
“Well, we can’t just let this idea go to waste!”
“Yeah, so let’s approach the team that invented time travel and—”
“They’d just do it wrong! But we could do this the right way!”
“How are ‘we’ going to create a time machine?”
“You’re smart!”
Ah, yes, that reason.
Unfortunately, I could see, again, where he was coming from. My friend from MIT had actually offered me a place on the team. But I had wanted stability, a decent salary, and, you know, a life, and had turned him down. I designed thrusters for unmanned probes and charted their trajectories. But charting trajectories through space wasn’t so different than charting them through time. And making an actual time machine wasn’t as hard as it sounded. It was a lot like the atomic bomb; the big question was whether it would work. Once it did, everyone knew, more or less, how to build one.
But Abernath was right. With the tennis ball, the scientist had decided how long it would stay in the past. When a person went back, they’d have to decide. Which meant the time machine would have to go with them. That meant it
could not be an entire room of delicate parts. It would also mean the machine itself would have to do the math for the return trajectory.
“So you’ll do it!”
I snapped back to reality. “What?”
“You had that calculating face.”
“I… have a job.”
Abernath waved his hand dismissively.
“You’re free almost all day, everyday.”
I stared at him. Was he serious? I worked a nine to five job at NASA. Just 9:00 PM to 5:00 AM instead of the normal nine to five. I was free most of the day because I was sleeping from 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM. And the rest of that time I had… a life. I had a girlfriend. I ran marathons. I did shit. Did he not know?
No. He knew. He just figured I wouldn’t do any of that anymore.
Despite all of that… there was this annoying little voice in the back of my head asking me a question: who did I want to be? Did I want to be the guy who lived next to David Abernath? Or did I want to be the guy who helped David Abernath invent time travel?
After all, Abernath had done the hard part. He had asked the question. All I had to do now was answer it for him. If I said no, he’d just find some other poor bastard who graduated from MIT in three years, worked at NASA, and had an IQ of 155. I knew at least three of them myself (although one of them actually graduated from Stanford, but that’s beside the point).
Sure, it would be a painful few… months? Years? God, tell me it wasn’t going to be years. But when it was over…
I sighed and opened the drawer of my coffee table. Taking out a pen and pad of paper I looked up at Abernath.
“There’s no way this is gonna be done in time to fix your house.”
David pumped his fists and sat back down on the couch. “That’s okay! The guys inspected it yesterday, and it’s a small thing.”
I groaned, not even trying to hide my disappointment. But David was too excited to notice.
I started to write out a basic formula for time travel, explaining what I was doing to David Abernath as I went along. After maybe an hour, a squirrel hopped up on my coffee table.
“You never closed your door,” David said helpfully.
I sighed, shooing the squirrel back outside, and, reluctantly, closed the door with the entrepreneur of the year and future inventor of time travel still on my couch.
FACE T HIEVES
TIM O'NEAL
Dear Kathleen,
My time is short. The worst has happened; I’ve become one of the faceless.
You’ve seen them on the street—a crusty mass of brown musculature all that’s left of their old visages, hollowed-out eye sockets staring, gristly caverns of absent noses leering.
We, the faceless, are all victims of the Thieves, who mysteriously appeared during the aughts. While the world was panicking about Y2K, fearing computer malfunctions would bring the end, it arrived instead, masquerading underneath the faces of neighbors, spouses, and colleagues.
One such Thief attacked me yesterday, wearing the face of my old friend—Nate Forbes. I was headed for my carpool when he called out, “Hey Garry. Wait up, bud.”
Let me pause here, my love, and emphasize there was
nothing amiss about his appearance, nothing to reveal the horror about to befall me.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Nate said.
“What’s up?”
“Come over here,” he said, leading me behind a concrete pillar, out of sight.
I should’ve realized something was wrong, but we’d grown up together and I trusted him. I sure didn’t expect him to immobilize me against the column.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?”
Ravenous hunger colored Nate’s gaze. My last visual was of two scythe-shaped proboscises erupting from his eyeballs. They lengthened and embedded into my forehead under my hairline. Excruciating pain ripped through my skull. The sensation of flesh ripping from bone seared through me as the Thief efficiently peeled my features off like a mud mask.
Mercifully, my brain passed out, blocking the torture. Temporarily.
When I came to, everything was dark. Agony was my new reality. Exposed nerve endings bellowed. I wanted to sob, but no longer had eyes. Blindly, I felt my way home.
My shaking fingers fumbled for my keys, but they’d vanished, along with my wallet and IDs. The Thief had taken everything.
Frantic, I jabbed at the bell.
The door opened and I heard you, my dear wife, gasp. The horror and revulsion in your voice actualized my destruction. I don’t blame you; I can imagine what I must’ve looked like— an anonymous monster, bleeding and gawping on the porch, struggling to produce intelligible sounds from a lipless maw.
To your credit, you didn’t slam the door on me—a gory stranger. How can I express my depth of gratitude?
Oh, Kathleen, my angel, help me, I wished to shout, desperate to warn you about the monster standing beside you. Then I heard him say, in my voice, “Leave us, you wretch.” The front door slammed and locked. Locked you inside with it.
Heartsick with worry, I stumbled into the night. What else could I do? No one would listen to me. They’re all too afraid. I’m just another anonymous horror, awaiting his premature death from ghastly infections.
But, sweet Kathleen, I had to jot down this note since I can’t communicate my fate elsewise. If my blind scribble is legible, take my warning: protect yourself. Trust no one. And run.
Your loving husband always, Garry
SH APES OF WA� MT H
TJ O'SHEA
The dead of winter is a misnomer. Winter’s solstice is very much alive—its lungs expel frosty breaths, snowy fractals nourish dormant soil, and the blinding sun shimmers along frozen rivers. Winter insulates the holiday season like a womb. All the roasts, presents, midnight kisses, giving thanks and saying prayers, lighting candles and singing songs, we cram into the season until it bursts with cheer.
Warmth is a place, and it’s New York City in the winter. The city thrives in these short days and long nights. In summer, blocks glisten with sweat, and steam rising from the asphalt gets trapped between the sewer and the sky. But in winter? Streets dazzle with lights, strung like garland across glowing storefronts, and a blurry layer of snow quiets the bustle of boots. Summer is coveting purloined pockets of relief, but winter is unearthing unexpected shapes of warmth. Cozy
bookstores slinging hot cocoa, the comfy armchair next to a clicking radiator, or a subway car at midnight after the tourists scatter and locals pack inside.
Warmth is my car, traveling the lonely highway back to my apartment from the airport. As one of approximately five people on the island of Manhattan with their own car, I’m the shepherdess of adventures to uptown bars, downtown nightclubs, or jaunts to the beach. I bear witness to the open arms or tearful waves at airports. Usually, I observe this hello and goodbying from behind my windshield, but not this time.
My simmering romance that boiled over between Thanksgiving and New Year’s chilled in a blustery airport, with eyes glossy and throat-lumps swallowed. We kissed goodbye, with lips of earnest and tongues of heartbreak, and I waved as all the warmth in my life disappeared except for that behind my eyes.
Yearning for a more typical heartbroken New Yorker experience, I park outside my building and leave my tearsoaked, mascara-ridden napkins in the car. Each step of my long, frigid walk, I’m reminded of how she stole my home and made it hers, suffusing every block with life. Without her they cease to be real, untethered like parade balloons, leading nowhere. Today, the dead of winter is truer than it ever will be again.
Warmth is a short romance, kept casual like well-worn jeans. We knew she would leave when the sanitation workers swept away the streamers in Times Square and my hungover city sobered up, and she promised to return. Unfortunately, we made no clause for the ache left in her wake. We didn’t account for her departing with her name on my lips and my heart in her hands.
Turning onto my block, everything freezes.
Illuminated by a lone lamppost, presumably erected seventy
years ago for dramatic effect, she stands in front of my stoop. A taxi slowly pulls away from the curb. Her baggage sits at her feet. My future exists in the smile on her lips.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
Warmth is a promise.
THE WITCH OF B�I AR WOOD
ANNA CARSON
The house in the Briar Wood was owned by a woman with white hair. She lived alone most days, with no company but the trees and the animals around her, and the rare plants and occasionally dangerous herbs she kept. Her house was two stories of quaint red brick and climbing ivy and great glass windows, backed by a great greenhouse with wrought iron fixtures, both distinctly out of place in the middle of a forest but somehow still far too easy to miss.
The woman’s schedule went like this: she would wake up at half past six. She would leave her bedroom, one of only two, and go to her expansive kitchen with more windows than walls, all coated in various plants and shelves and bottles. She would open her pantry, which, if one inspected closely enough, seemed just a bit too large for the space it warranted, and would grab
something for breakfast. After breakfast, the woman would then tidy the house. If perhaps a broom moved with no hands to guide it, or dust flew from the elegant chandeliers and the overstuffed bookshelves with a flick of her fingers, well, there was no one there to see. With the tidying of the house came the caring for the plants that lived voraciously all around her; the ones hanging from her rafters, the ones climbing her windows, the ones in the many pots and the ones in the earth outside, the ones that filled her great glass greenhouse, which was connected to the house through a glass hallway in the back.
When the plants were cared for, and the house was cleaned, perhaps she would brew something in a pot over the fire, or read a book, or grind herbs. Sometimes she cooked, and sometimes she murmured lullabies by memory or whispered words from ancient pages, and sometimes she would walk through the wood as though she was not human at all but something a little different. The foxes on the ground and the squirrels in the trees never paid her mind, and the wolves and the bears watched her only in wary silence. Sometimes she would hold out her hand, and a robin would settle on her palm and chirp as though it was having a conversation. Sometimes, the woman would talk back.
When night would finally fall, perhaps the woman would sit on her porch with a cup of tea, or in one of the rooms in her greenhouse, and she would watch the forest in the darkness, not with fear but with quiet contemplation. Sometimes she would work under the light of the moon, caressing a flower that bloomed at no other time, or she would walk through the woods to a stream that appeared only under starlight. And then the woman would go to her bedroom, one of only two, and she would fall asleep, as she did most days, alone.
Occasionally, a traveler would stumble upon the quaint house. Only those that needed to meet the woman with the white hair ever truly found it. The woman might invite them into her home, and sometimes they would not blink at the clock that told the wrong time, or the tea that poured itself, and other times they would startle and wonder whether they were seeing things. The woman never corrected them. She would simply sit with them, and eat with them, and if they stayed long enough, she would let them sleep on her couch and wander through her glass greenhouse. Inevitably every traveler left, with a plant or a potion or a piece of advice, and they would miraculously find themselves wherever they had needed to be. The memory of the quaint house was always spotty at best afterward, and no matter how hard they tried, it was never to be found again. This was the way of things, and the woman had long since stopped fighting the cruel song of the Briar Wood. She simply sipped her tea on her porch and stared into the trees, waiting until the next traveler appeared in her glade.
The woman with the white hair received only one repeat visitor, in all of her endless days spent in the backs of minds and on the tips of tongues. At first glance, this visitor looked different every time. But the woman knew that this man or woman or everything in between, blond or red-headed or green-eyed or brown, they were really the same person. It was in the way they somehow stumbled across her home and didn’t feel the need to take something and leave. It was in the way they accepted her offer of tea, always lavender with far too much honey and the same sharp smile when the woman grimaced at how sweet it must be. It was the way they trailed fingers along the flowers growing in the less poisonous part of her greenhouse, in the way they laughed a dangerous
laugh when dancing through her nightshade and belladonna and oleander. It was the same seven freckles brushed lightly across their cheekbones, or the way they smiled a warm smile and murmured “deja vu” when the woman offered the spare bedroom on her second floor. It was the pure and easy happiness that came when they chose, every time, to stay in that second room, when they chose the woman with the white hair, when inevitably they snickered and whispered in her ear “when are you going to ask if we can just share your room?” and raced her upstairs. It was in the music that filled the woman’s usually silent house in their presence. It was the cleaning that was put off because together they strolled through the forest that dared not harm either one of them. The woman with the white hair looked at this visitor and watched them waste away before her eyes, because death may not touch everyone, but it always, cruelly and without fail, sought them out. It stood over the bed they had shared for years now, and looked at her with pitying eyes, before taking a sliver of sunshine soul and leaving, again. Countless times, the woman watched the body of the only person that ever stayed wash away into silver stardust, not even a body to remember them by, because they were never meant to last long. And the woman with the white hair would let herself cry, as she rarely ever did, before cleaning up the quaint house that had not been cleaned for decades now. She would set the broom to sweeping, and the dust to flutter out the window, and she would sit in her greenhouse and stare into the night. And the woman returned, as she always did, to her routine. Waiting, as she always did, until her visitor came back with a new face and a new story but the same taste in tea.
MYSTE�Y M A N
MARY KRAKOW
Below my downtown hotel window an ocean of umbrellas ebbs and flows. Like German clockwork, masses of humanity cross to the traffic lights. Fascinated, I watch.
My eye is drawn to a lone man dressed in black, unencumbered by the requisite umbrella in the spring rain. He eschews the crosswalk and ambles down a nearly deserted street.
Who is this man? Why is he leaving the city center?
I ask the nail tech in the hotel salon where the street in front of the hotel leads.
In broken English she tells me one direction goes to the park, the other to the business district.
My husband has business meetings all day, so I am free to roam. The concierge sets me up with a park tour. We meet in the lobby at ten thirty. Despite the cool temperatures, the park is filled with dancers, musicians, actors, and athletes. But
my mystery man is nowhere to be found. Our guide stops at a yatai, where I satisfy my hunger and warm my hands with sweet potatoes baked over a wood fire. We huddle for warmth and watch a drama troupe rehearse as we eat.
Back at the hotel, I forget about the man in black. I dine with my husband and tell of my adventures in the park. But the next morning, I see the enigmatic man traveling away from the city center once again. Who is he? I wonder.
Today I visit the shopping district with my new friend from the tour. Acres of shops are within our grasp. When we stop to rest our weary feet, I tell her about my mystery man. We try to guess what he’s up to. A spy, perhaps. Or a thief. Why else would he leave the city center each day if not to pursue some nefarious purpose?
At dinner, I tell my husband my dilemma. I describe the man’s mysterious compulsion each day to flee the hustle and bustle of the city. To walk down a deserted street when the whole world is drawn to its center.
He pats my hand and assures me I’m imagining things. But the next day I’m ready. I rise early and wait inside the lobby door. When I spy the man in black, I rush into the street to follow him. I’m carried by the stream of people. Unable to fight the tide, I watch helplessly as he drifts down the deserted street yet again. He is an enigma I can’t fathom.
The next morning, I wake to my ringtone. “Honey, I left a file on the dresser. Can you bring it to me?”
I dress and rush to the building across the street. The vaguely familiar doorman directs me to the meeting room where I deliver the file.
On my way out, a different doorman stands at the door.
“You weren’t here a minute ago.” 22
He cocks his head to a retreating figure meandering up a deserted street. “Shift change.”
NA MES
THOMAS GAFFNEY
The archaic, ornate gates rose out of the foliage, giving Julia the impression of an elvish castle materializing in a Middle Earth forest. The word CEMETERY peered through interlacing ivy and cast a pall over a burgeoning romantic walk.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her fear of death lingered over her words. “This… This isn’t what I envisioned.”
“Oh, my god!” Sue smiled. Julia thought she had a gorgeous smile. “Don’t be sorry! It’s kind of cute.”
“Cute? It’s a cemetery.”
“Lots of cemeteries are cute. With baroque architecture and elegant calligraphy on the headstones. What can I say? I like antique things. But you knew that.”
“That might be the only thing I know about you. Even
after a month of working together, I still don’t think I know your last name.”
“I’m an enigma.” Sue winked. “Come on.”
They passed through the open gates and admired the intricate patterns twisted into the wrought iron. “See.” Sue pointed out cherubic imagery and floral accents. “It’s lovely.”
Five feet into the cemetery, hordes of flowers lined their path, and impossible blooms decorated every tombstone. Every few plots, the flower species changed, and assorted colored petals painted rainbows along each side of the trail. Julia gasped at the elegance. As she inhaled, a sweet scent filled her nose, and she closed her eyes. It took her back to her mother’s flower garden and all the woodsy, citrusy, and apricotty smells. It was a trip to the past—to a magical place—and Julia forgot she was in a cemetery.
She recognized some California poppy sprinkled about —her mother’s favorite flower—and it surprised her to see it on the East Coast.
“This is fantastic.”
“I told you,” Sue replied. “Besides, this was your idea anyway.”
“No, no, no,” Julia said with a laugh. “I suggested lunch and a stroll in the park. You’re the one who saw ominous gates and led us across the River Styx.”
“Jeez! Dramatic much? It’s just a cute little cemetery.”
“It’s more than little,” a rough voice called out from behind a row of graves, giving both women a jump.
An elderly man stood and stepped out onto the walkway. Cuts and scars, too thick to be from shaving, covered his bald scalp. Billowy overalls hung from his massive shoulders and sagged in the front. Dark stains splattered his snug T-shirt, and in his gloved hands he held a rusted grass sickle and a
double-claw cultivator. Julia couldn’t help but imagine the damage those tools could do to human flesh as the man said, “We got about one and a half million square feet here. Lots of open plots, if youse ladies are interested.”
“No!” Julia said—a little too loudly, too quickly, and too suspiciously for her liking. “I mean, no thank you. We, uh…”
“We were just admiring the flowers,” Sue said. Julia felt Sue grab her hand and squeeze it.
“Yeah,” Julia agreed. “They’re beautiful. And some of these species… I didn’t think they could—”
“We used to get lots of people in here to admire the flowers,” the man said. “Right after we were in the papers. But no one comes to look at them anymore.”
Julia looked and saw Sue’s eyes alight with adventure. Sue had a reputation for being reckless, and it seemed wellfounded. As inviting as this cemetery—of all places—looked and smelled, Julia didn’t want to hang around.
“You’re not thinking…” she began.
“Come on, scaredy-pants. Flowers!”
“Please!” The old man’s smile seemed unnaturally wide. “Youse ladies are more than welcome to tour our path.” He pointed down the flower-lined walk. “It’ll loop around and bring youse right back to the gate.”
Sue still had a hold of Julia’s hand and pulled her along. “Thanks,” she said to the man as they moved forward.
“Just one last thing,” the guy called out. “At the top of the loop, there’s an open plot that’s roped off. I ask youse to please don’t go near it.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Julia replied.
The elderly man shrugged and returned to whatever he’d been doing, but his departure did nothing to alleviate Julia’s unease. Sue let go of Julia’s hand and walked over to a large,
moss-covered headstone. Visible parts of the molding hinted at something exquisite, and she wiped away the growth to unsheathe the top of the stone.
“Ew,” Julia said. “You’re touching that?”
“Oh, relax. Come over here and look at this. It’s gorgeous.”
Julia trekked across the grass, careful not to step on any grave markers lying flush with the ground. Sue stood before a beautifully chiseled stone that would’ve looked at home in any museum. The area she’d cleared away displayed a labyrinth of lines that crossed and curled and coalesced into cats.
“Wow, you’re right,” Julia said. She scanned down the tombstone. “Hey, Petka. I went to school with a Petka.”
Sue swiped her hand down the front of the stone and cleared away more of the lichen. The last name was legible but not as deeply carved as it must have been originally. The first name and any dates had been eroded away.
“I’d say this grave has been here long before me, you, or your classmate was born.”
“Yeah,” Julia agreed. She focused on the empty space on the front of the headstone. It was as if the world had forgotten the person buried there. Or drained them of their essence.
“Let’s go check out those flowers.” Sue was off toward another location along the path.
Julia followed, trying to shake the weird vibes from the Petka grave. She caught up to Sue, who asked, “So? Was she cute?”
“What? She who?”
“This Petka you went to school with.”
Julia laughed. “She was a he, and he was my best friend throughout grade school.”
“That’s sweet,” Sue said. “Tell me more.”
Julia talked about her years in Philadelphia and St. Tim’s.
She’d hated her time there, had few friends outside of Mike Petka, and was constantly teased after realizing she liked girls. It got awkward when Mike confessed his feelings and asked her to their prom.
“That was the first time I had to admit who I was to someone,” Julia explained. “I thought I was going to crush him, not to mention what it would do to me to say it out loud.”
“How did it all go?”
“He took it well. Much better than my parents. We stayed friends, but I went to an all-girl high school while he went to an all-boy one, and we drifted apart.”
A bright, purplish color caught Julia’s eye, and she indicated the area to Sue. They headed over to a large patch of drooping branches with large, bright green leaves. Julia had noticed the berries on the branches where the leaves sprouted were the vibrant purple of a child’s highlighter.
“These are incredible.” Sue picked a berry and looked closer.
“I think…” Julia began. “I think they’re beautyberries.”
“They certainly are.” Sue dropped the berry and moved off to another eroded headstone.
“No.” Julia shook her head and tried to recall some things her mother taught her. “I think they only grow in, like, Texas.”
“Well, they must grow here too,” Sue said, preoccupied with the grave marker. “Hey. You didn’t know an Andrews in grade school, too, did you?”
“No.” Julia was still fixated on the flowers that shouldn’t be there. “But I knew a girl—a friend of a friend—in college with that name. Michele. Michele Andrews.”
“Ha!” Sue barked out a laugh. “You’re two for two. Though, I also knew an Andrews way back when.”
Julia left the purple berries, wishing she could remember
more of the knowledge her plant-obsessed mother had shared, and stood beside Sue.
“Don’t you think that’s weird? No first names?”
“Nah.” Sue shook her head. “I’m sure I’ve seen headstones with only the last name before. Besides, the last name is the one with all the power.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Julia was still unsettled by these lives being erased. “Let’s go check out more flowers. I want to see what else they have going on here.”
Once back on the path, Sue took Julia’s hand and asked, “So, your parents didn’t take your coming out too well?”
“My dad’s Catholic, and my mom’s Lutheran. I expected my dad to flip and my mom to stick up for me. Turned out my dad was cool with it, but I had a falling out with my mom.”
“Oof. That sucks.”
Julia nodded. “We started talking again after my dad died, but our relationship is still strained. And we lost all those years.” Her eyes stung, but she blinked back any threatening tears. She didn’t want pity on the first date. “What about you? Did young Sue jump up on the table and announce to the world that she’s queer?”
Sue shook her head, and Julia thought a bit of her shine faded.
“You have to understand my childhood. My dad went out to pick up pizza one night and never came back.” Sue let go of Julia’s hand and shoved her own into her pockets.
“Get out! Really?”
“He did! I mean, who does that in the 90s? That kind of shit happens in old movies. After that, it was just me, my mom, and my grandmother. We wouldn’t have made it if it wasn’t for my grams.”
“I’m sure—”
“Oh, it’s not hyperbole,” Sue said. “We wouldn’t have had food or a place to live. My mom would’ve died to make sure I made it or started selling herself. It was bad there for a bit.” She wiped her eyes, and Julia felt terrible for asking. “Anyway, when I figured out I was gay, I told my mom right away. She was mostly indifferent—you are who you are, she told me—but she made me promise to hide it until my grams passed away. After all Grams did for us, I kept my promise.”
“And now that she’s gone, you’re the openly proud person we all see at work?”
Sue laughed. “Oh, she’s still kicking! But she and my mom moved down to Florida. I’m Ms. Gay Pride up here and Ms. Aging Spinster down there.”
“I’m sure it’s tough, but it’s nice you do that for your grandmother.”
“Thanks. The hardest part is facing the teens I counsel. I’m telling them not to be ashamed of who they are while I’m hiding who I am to the person most responsible for getting me this far in life.”
“Hey,” Julia said, moving closer. “Anyone would understand. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
She lifted Sue’s chin until they were eye-to-eye, leaned in, and kissed her—once, gently—on the lips.
“I certainly wasn’t expecting that.” Sue laughed. “What happened to the quiet, reserved woman from work?”
Julia blushed as she said, “I don’t know. You told me a little about yourself that I didn’t know, and I just felt something open inside me.”
“That’s kind of romantic.”
“Thanks.” Julia stepped back. She looked around and pointed. “Those flowers over there look pretty romantic, too. Let’s check them out.”
“You really like flowers,” Sue noted.
“My mom was a flower nut. I learned a lot from her, but I’ve forgotten most of it in the years we weren’t speaking. I wish I could remember more. Some of these species shouldn’t be able to survive here.”
They stopped before a large swath of yellow flowers. As Julia knelt down and cupped a bloom in her hand, Sue asked, “What are these? They’re not daffodils.”
“Nope. Black-eyed Susans…”
“Not named after me, by the way. I’m a Suzanne.”
Julia flashed a devilish grin but continued. “They’re in every state, but they’re mostly coastal and in warmer climates. And look…” Julia pointed to vines growing up nearby tombstones and mausoleums with yellow, trumpet-shaped flowers. “I’d bet my right arm those are Carolina jessamine—also from more tropical, Southern areas.”
“They smell lovely.”
“They’re poisonous. My mom drilled the dangerous ones into my head.”
“That’s messed up,” Sue said, slowly backing away from the jessamine. “Who would plant poisonous plants where kids or animals could accidentally eat them?”
“That old guy WAS disturbing.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know.” Sue held out her hand and helped Julia to her feet. “We should tell him on the way out.”
“Yeah.” Julia wiped her hands on her jeans, not convinced it was a mistake. Someone capable of growing these plants in the wrong habitat would know better. “Let’s get moving.” She returned to the walkway.
Sue didn’t follow, so Julia looked back and found her staring at another old stone they’d come across. It was the width of two plots. Julia couldn’t make out the name centered across the
top, followed by Husband on the left and Wife on the right, so she moved closer and stammered, “That’s… that’s so creepy.”
“What?”
“The Leidys. They were a couple that lived on my street when I was growing up. They vanished.”
“Vanished? What do you mean, vanished?” Sue sounded… alarmed.
Julia shrugged. “It was the summer I turned sixteen. They told me I don’t have to call them Mr. and Mrs. Leidy anymore—I could call them Warren and Kristen. It was the first time I learned their names. And then they were gone. The cops came and searched their house and everything. But no one, as far as I know, ever saw or heard from them again.”
She glanced down for first names, but they’d been eroded away. All that remained were two initials. W and K. Sue must have noticed the same thing because she took both of Julia’s hands in hers and said, “It’s a coincidence, and it means nothing. Like you said, we should get moving.”
They continued along the walkway. Sue remained quiet, and Julia wondered what thoughts filled her head. She hoped she wasn’t scaring Sue off, but the names on the graves disturbed her. Especially the Leidys, with the matching initials. She tried to distract herself by noting the various plants along the way. The ones she recognized didn’t belong here—not outside of a greenhouse. They neared the halfway point because Julia could see some caution tape in the distance. She assumed Sue saw it too, but no one said anything.
Julia attempted to lighten the mood by saying, “This is the point in the story where you—the serial killer—have a tombstone with my name on it all prepared at the open grave.”
Sue burst out laughing and said, “Holy shit. I was about
to make a joke like that, but I didn’t want to upset you. Also, you figured out my fiendish plan.”
“I’m so glad I helped pick my own death on the first date. Sure saves having to come up with something original for date number two.”
“You’re hilarious. Why don’t we see this side of you at the office?”
Julia shrugged. “I’m crazy introverted. I like to get to know people more before I open myself up.”
Sue pulled them to a stop, and they checked out the headstone of the roped-off open grave. Sue pointed to the carved words on the shiny, new granite—first name, last name, and dates—and said, “See. It’s not your name. You don’t have to worry about me pushing you in.”
“You couldn’t anyway, not with those twig arms. But, for once, I don’t know anybody by this name.”
“Hey, there’s some surprising strength in these twigs. But I’m glad your morbid streak is over. Come on, let’s check out some more flowers and head out.”
They left the open plot at the top of the loop and followed the path as it headed back toward the gates. After chitchat, many vines, and more ivy, another yellow patch was visible through the green.
“Now, THOSE are daffodils,” Sue cried out.
She ran over to a butter-colored field and knelt in the middle, smelling the flowers. Julia followed and almost tripped over a timeworn stone, set flush with the ground and carved with the name GORSCHBOTH and the year 1998. Julia felt a chill down her spine.
“I think we should go.”
“Are you okay?” Sue looked up from the flowers. “You seem pale.”
Julia tapped the stone with her Converse. “I knew a girl—Heather Gorschboth—in grade school. She died right before we graduated. In 1998.”
Sue walked over and stood beside her. “What did she die from?”
“Officially, a drunk driver. But we were immature. And a rumor went around school that something unnatural got her.”
“What?” Sue laughed. “Like what? A ghost? A vampire?”
“I don’t know.” Julia shook her head, remembering. “I wasn’t that close to her. After people found out I was gay, she was one kid who teased me. I remember asking one of her friends for dirt on her as payback, like her middle name and who she had a crush on. I found out what I could, but then she was gone. It was a closed-casket funeral, and a lot of us suspected the coffin was empty.”
“Kids.” Sue shook her head. “I’m sure this is just a coincidence. I mean, you told me you grew up in Philly, so why would a girl from your school be buried out here? And there’s no first name. Come on…” Sue took her hand. “We can’t be too far from the end.”
They walked on. Julia didn’t know how long or how far when they came to another really ancient-looking grave. Sue dropped Julia’s hand and moved closer to the headstone.
“I don’t want to know the name,” Julia said.
“This is weird. It looks like it’s a hundred years old, but the name and dates are fresh.”
As much as she didn’t want to look, that piqued Julia’s interest. She joined Sue and took a long look at the marker. The granite was chipped, and time had softened the edges of the stone and the carved letters. Moss clung to the bottom right side like a child trying to scale a parent’s leg to be picked up. Green dots of lichen dotted the letters as if someone began
coloring them in but gave up. Etched across the marble were the words: M. MALIA, Died 2020.
Julia blurted out, “I know a Malia, but she’s still alive.” But did she know that? She hadn’t talked to Marie since the last reunion. Could she be sure Marie’s still alive? The date was only two years ago.
As Sue examined the headstone, Julia pulled out her cell phone and opened the Facebook Messenger app. She sent Marie a message—just saying hi and asking how she was doing—and made sure it was sent before closing the app. She brought up Facebook on a whim—she hadn’t checked it in ages—to look at Marie’s page. Posts asking for prayers and MISSING PERSON notices for Marie peppered her timeline.
Julia dropped her phone and looked at Sue through bubbling tears.
“She’s missing. We need to go.”
Sue stood. “I’m sure—”
“You don’t understand…” Julia cut her off. “I’ve known people who’ve just passed away. My grandmother on my dad’s side. My mom’s aunt. I’ve also known people who were tragically killed. A sorority sister got into an accident while drunk driving. The brother of an ex-boyfriend was killed in a construction accident. None of those names are here. Only the people who’ve died mysteriously or gone missing.”
“How many people have you known who’ve gone missing?”
Julia ignored Sue’s tone and said, “We should go.” She could hear the pleading in her own voice.
“Yeah,” Sue agreed. “We should be near the gates.”
They moved quickly, no longer holding hands or touching.
“I’m sorry I’m freaking out,” Julia rambled on. “But all these names are too much of a coincidence. I feel like I should be next. And now I’m in some dreadful cemetery with a woman
whose last name I don’t even know and a crazy old guy with sharp gardening tools. I saw some Netflix documentary like this and—”
Sue didn’t stop moving but said, “This isn’t some Stephen King book, and nothing is going to get you. But my last name is Sibiski if that makes you feel any better, and people know where I am.”
Sue didn’t know if giving her last name was a bright idea, but she wanted Julia to move. She wanted out of this cemetery, and honestly—she wanted to end this date. But she worked with this woman and couldn’t just run off and leave her stranded. Perhaps getting her out of this cemetery would help calm her down and let Sue go her separate way.
She thought the exit was beyond the curve up ahead when she noticed a final, antiquated grave by the turn. Sue heard the screech of fingernails on a chalkboard, and her eyes were drawn to letters carving themselves into the granite. It was like watching a ghost chiseling the stone. Dust nestled at the base of each letter like bread crumbs settling at the bottom of the bag. SUZANNE SIBISKI appeared as the final ‘I’ was etched.
Sue stumbled, almost falling to one knee, and said, “I… I don’t understand.”
It was the first time I learned their names. And then they were gone, Julia had said to her. Her middle name. I found out what I could, but then she was gone.
And what had Sue said? The last name is the one with all the power…
She turned and looked at Julia.
Twin flames burned in her eyeless sockets like tea light candles inside a wax burner. Six-inch stiletto-like teeth filled an elongated mouth as her lower jaw hung down over her
stomach. Maroon spots Sue associated with the elderly covered her hairless, mottled skull. And bulging, phallic veins painted motifs across her gray skin. The rows of sharp teeth separated as the enormous maw opened, and the last thing Sue saw was an endless void of nothing that went deep down Julia’s throat.
Okyong asked, “Really? At your last job?”
“Really,” Julia said. “She went missing last year, right before I quit. I don’t remember her name. A shame, too. She was cute.”
Okyong slapped Julia on the arm and said, “Lucky me then, I guess.”
Both women laughed when archaic, ornate gates appeared out of the foliage.
“That’s weird,” Julia said. “Gates in the middle of a park?”
“It’s a cemetery. Look!” Okyong pointed to the word CEMETERY as it peered out from behind uncontrollable ivy. She walked under the arch and looked back. “Come on!”
“A cemetery? But…” Julia didn’t know how to put her feelings into words, but she didn’t know if they should enter.
“Come ON!” Okyong repeated. “You should see all the flowers in here.”
Julia entered the cemetery, lured in by the gleeful look on Okyong’s face. Okyong had a slight smile—not a timid or shy or a half-smile, but tiny compared to the rest of her face—but it was radiant enough to light up a room. Julia could follow that smile anywhere. She met Okyong on the path about ten feet into the cemetery and took her hand. They walked along and saw rainbows of flowers that would shame the local Flower Show. In fact, Julia thought some of them might not be—
“Good afternoon, ladies,” a rough voice called from a field of pansies. An old man who looked as scarred and
weather-beaten as the front gates was wiping sweat from his bald head. “Don’t be shy; have a look around. We don’t get many people in here nowadays. But youse two should be able to find something you like.”
“Thanks, Mister…” Okyong squinted at the patch on the man’s baggy overalls. “Is your name Ren—?”
The old guy slapped his hand over the name and chuckled. But his eyes bugged, and he looked right at Julia.
“Actually, the name ain’t mine. I borrowed these from the last guy who worked here. Youse ladies enjoy yourselves.”
Okyong thanked him and began pulling Julia along the path. Julia cast a glance back at the caretaker. He caught her looking and instantly covered up the patch again. That was odd. But she forgot about it when Okyong pulled her off the path toward an ancient and seasoned tombstone.
“Look at this one!” Okyong cried out. “It looks like it’s from the time of the pilgrims or something!”
Julia took in the grave marker and made a joke. “Hey! I think I knew a Sibiski once.”
THE SEVEN SEC�
ET
DISCOVE�
IES OF
T HE C AP TAIN OF T HE
CANTATA LUCANI A ON T HE OCCASION OF �UNNING AG�OUND
BEN JACKSON
At the end of things, he did not know whether it was the nearby scuttling of a hungry crab, the first cold brush of the rising tide, or a tattered wisp of an ancient song snagging on his ear as it drifted over the sandbar which woke him; he simply knew he was awake. Awake and buried to his chin in an unfamiliar sandbar, unable to move.
First discovery: panicked thrashing is ineffective. In fact, it serves only to increase the difficulty that a sarcophagus of wet sand compressing one’s chest lends to breathing. He forced himself to calm slowly, marginally, and take stock of his situation.
Second discovery: he was not alone.
Directly ahead of him, in normal conversational range if there were no raging sea some ten feet to either side, sat another head. It was small, no more than a child’s, and its dark auburn hair hung wetly in the sand in forlorn tendrils.
To the right, a seemingly unbroken line of similar heads dotted the sandbar to its distant, elliptical end where the sand sank into the breaking foam.
Gathering his strength, sucking in the deepest lungful of air he could manage, he shouted with all his might at the figure trapped in front of him. It was only when a crab emerged from the head’s sea-soaked mane, a pale-blue glob of flesh trailing copper strands in its greedy claw, did he realize just how still the other heads were.
Third discovery: screaming in terror at the highest pitch and volume attainable when buried to one’s chin in a sandbar alerts crabs to one’s presence.
The first came from behind. Its chitinous clacking as it skittered toward him was impossibly slow, like gravel rolling down a gentle slope. The sandbar could not be more than twenty feet wide, but the approach took hours. The first tugging on his hair, followed quickly by a stabbing, rending pain at the very top of his neck was almost a relief, an end to the eternal onslaught of the single crab. He screamed again, and soon heard more clacking—an impossible amount of clacking—moving toward him. They came from behind, and soon from the skulls in front of him: hundreds of small blue crabs with almost human faces nestled deep between their menacing claws.
The crabs were tentative at first, furtive and darting, a new lover’s exploratory kisses. A speck of cheek, a small square of eyelid, a morsel of earlobe deftly carved with razor
claws. These were the appetizers, but it was not long before the buffet opened. Everywhere, rending and ripping, the bits larger, ribbons of skin trailing strips of flesh.
Fourth discovery: when one loses one’s mind, buried to the neck in sand and consumed by crabs, one will hear singing. The man feels power in that singing. It brings with it knowledge that he is exactly where he is supposed to be. It brings contentment in his predicament; it assuages the pain as it washes over his tearing face. It brings knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, certainly, but what can forbidden mean to one so near the edge of here and gone? It is the knowledge of Odysseus, bound to the mast. It is the song that lulls young sailors to the deep. It is the coin with which the Ferryman will be paid.
It is more than the mind can bear unless the mind is already broken so widely open that it no longer is a vessel of containment. It brings back final glimpses of the life he once had: a young boy—his boy—laughing “papa!” as he released balloons from the bow of their boat, their lazy glide over the strait a better guide than any for their crossing. A memory of the boy’s mother astride him in creation. The fingerprint scent of her red hair as he kissed her goodbye for the last time.
The singing also carries to him the memory of itself, the song first heard as the western shore of the strait came into view below the cliffs, dark clouds gathering above. Beckoning. Pleading. Yearning and essential, driving the man and his boy frantic with unearned knowing and a need for more. It came from behind him.
Fifth discovery: the rising tide is the enemy of feeding crabs. It is also the enemy of their supper. The first breaking wave sent his tormentors to sea, save those with the most tenacious grip. He could feel them tug on strands of his torn
face, demanding their dinner as the sea demanded hers. And then they were gone. The wave receded, and the now-saturated sand made breathing even harder. The song surged anew from behind, and he knew the next wave would be worse, would not recede fully, and that his time above the tide was running out. He tried to close his eyes against the next surge, only to discover he had no eyelids remaining to close. The salt water burned in the open cuts and swiftly filled his mouth.
Sixth discovery: As the song of the siren builds behind one, even when the first bony fingers wrap themselves in one’s hair, one will tear oneself in half to avoid seeing the singer. And it will be futile.
Then as the tide rose, filling his ears, the tune changed. Underwater it was no more distant, in fact, it was somehow sharper. Instead of the promise of knowledge, however, it promised only the passing beyond knowing. It demanded his eyes. It insisted on being seen.
Seventh discovery: in the last moment of human life, one will know eternity and damnation, burned in the eyes of the siren. And then one will only know the sea as it steals one’s sandbar, one’s son, and the distant memory of life above as one learns how to sing.
Soon, another boat will come.
MEASU� EMENTS
HANNAH
BARCLAY
Flesh contorts in unusual ways as she wrestles the denim onto her body. Last winter’s jeans had been hidden away, waiting for a chill in the air to free them. The woman and the seams groan in unison as she pulls the brass button tight and attempts to fasten the pants. She writhes and wriggles, inhaling sharply to make room. It is no use; they don’t fit.
She falls to the bed, overcome with a deep exhaustion.
She remembers the day she brought the jeans home from the store last December. The sales associate wrapped them in cream tissue paper and the fabric was so stiff. They smelled like the aromatic candles that had been burning by the register when she handed over the hundred-dollar bill. Buyer’s remorse temporarily overcame her as she unwrapped the garment. The light feeling of excitement that carried her home was now weighed down by budgets and reason.
The regret had disappeared as she pulled the pants on the next day. She remembers getting ready for that first date. Her fingers quivered as she fiddled with the hem, rolling it into a perfect cuff as if her date would scrutinize it.
It was a night of newness; new clothes, new names and new feelings. She remembers the contrast of his smooth hands on the rough denim and his stubble over her pink cheeks.
That night led to blustery days at the water, getting acquainted with sea salt lips. A first date morphed to countless more because she finally found someone’s company she enjoyed more than her own. Cool spring days brought lunch in the park and passionate debates. Eventually, plans became connected and milestones became shared. The weeks changed from shiny and thrilling to something that felt more serious. Nights were whispers and mornings were hot coffee and laughter. Those were the moments that felt timeless, making her believe in a forever.
Eventually, things warped. They were too different from when they first met seven months ago. They were back to wanting and wishing for separate dreams. The reaching and stretching to stay connected left their skin puckered and raw. She remembered the searing pain.
In June, the brisk air turned balmy, and the jeans were retired to their resting place.
Now it is December again, and she is looking at the room that used to be theirs. As she goes to the closet, she passes a bare bedside table tattooed with phantom watermarks, and an old guitar that only plays sad songs. She places the jeans back in their spot on the top shelf to gather dust once more. The sharp ache inside her that had arrived with the summer heat and stuck around has become dull, but it is still present. It’s no use, she thinks, they just didn’t fit.
THE FEEDING
CHARLIE WILLIAMS
Jeb Walker was the first to see the stranger as he came into town on a dry, sunny afternoon when the blazing Texas sun sat high in the blue sky and the air was hot enough to fry a rattlesnake. It made sense that Jeb Walker would be the first to greet the stranger when he strode into town on a dry, sunny afternoon; Jeb’s general store was among the first buildings one met on the very edge of town. Assorted colorful candies crammed its windows in wicker baskets, and beyond them his store sat aglow with the golden radiance of an overhead gaslamp. It shed its soft light upon a wide variety of furs, pelts, guns (though it really wasn’t his business to sell them), tobacco, and pipes; a good general store, one that he had inherited from his father. Across the dirt street so heavily scarred with wagon wheel tracks, Goldman’s postal service stood empty and silent like a watchful skull in the sunshine.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Paul Goldman would be over at the saloon instead of stopping to greet the stranger alongside Jeb. He didn’t mind; it was easier to lure these people in when you were alone and unassuming. Jeb came to stand in the general store’s doorway, and watched with mild interest as the stranger approached.
Heralded by the chime of his silver spurs as he sauntered into town, the newcomer made for a grand enough entrance with his brown woven poncho draped over his broad shoulders and chest like a cape of royalty. Or a shroud. Jeb had to shield his eyes for a moment as the stranger’s big golden belt buckle caught the sunlight, a well-crafted product of metalwork inlaid with some design he could not see from that distance. Jeb’s eyes moved instinctively back to that buckle, where two cowskin holsters crisscrossed over its shiny surface. The polished grips of twin revolvers poked out shyly from their leather depths. He tipped his hat to the stranger as he passed the general store. The gesture was not returned, but the stranger stopped and turned to him, slowly and deliberately. His face was a mask of unshaven stubble that ended beneath the brim of his own hat, the front of it angled down over his eyes. Jeb was used to the cold greeting from men like him, and it didn’t bother him at all. Few things could nowadays, and besides, the job ahead was too delicate to be ruined by petty squabbles over politeness. Jeb briefly considered extending his hand, but thought better of it after another look at the six-guns lodged at the stranger’s waist.
“Where’re you coming from, boy?” Jeb asked the question without truly caring for an answer; he knew approximately where the stranger hailed from. Every settlement beyond theirs was the same, full to bursting with fur traders and whiskey and chilling stories about a settlement on the other side of the
horizon that killed thrillseekers and heroes alike. It gobbled up outsiders as greedily as children coming after school for the general store’s candy, and spit out the bones for the rest of the fools to see.
“Springton,” the stranger replied, “next settlement over.” Ah, yeah, Jeb thought, good place. Good business, good people, good way to get stories around. “I was drifting through there when I heard about your little settlement all the way out here. Y’all are a bit famous with the rustlers and ranchers, or so I’ve heard. I heard talk about a town that folks keep away from, because they don’t take too kindly to strangers. In fact,” he raised his head and met Jeb’s gaze with eyes as black and dark as a shark’s, “I heard that the last drifter to make it out of here was twenty years ago, in 1857. Rambling like a lunatic, and twice as dangerous. Now, what’s a town like that doing all the way out here, anyway?”
Jeb looked the stranger up and down. He wasn’t one of the rustlers he’d mentioned; no criminal would wear something so flashy as those pretty little guns hanging from his waist. And he certainly wasn’t a rancher, not dressed like that, anyway. A stranger is a stranger, Jeb decided, and he didn’t care to know any more than that. But he didn’t like the man’s curiosity, nor his intuition or depth of research he had evidently done. Not one bit.
“Well, we do get a few odd things in these parts. High winds, mostly; a few more coyotes than we’d like sometimes come through and raise a bit of hell. Comes from being so far from the trains and the other towns, you understand. But most everything else here is just as fine as bread and butter, wouldn’t you believe it.”
It did not look like he believed it. “I’ve heard things. You folks are hiding something, and I want to know what it is. I
want to know why nobody but the postmaster has had a thing to say about this town since before the war.”
Jeb detected the slightest hint of impatience behind the stranger’s words, and he knew that he had him. The man would not leave until he had found and exterminated the problem by some sacred, unspoken rule followed to the letter by every foolish cowboy ever to die in the West. Jeb took advantage of this suspicion and looked around nervously, as if he were afraid of being overheard. This was all part of the act, of course, but the stranger couldn’t know that.
“Fine. You wanna know the truth, boy?” Jeb motioned to the stranger to lean in. He complied silently, but Jeb saw the man’s right hand rest casually on one of his guns. This one wasn’t messing around.
“I’ll tell you then. There is a rat here, an evil soul named George Holloway. He comes down to this place saying all this fine stuff about being a banker, about saving our little town from the tax collectors, but he’s just a crook with a big wad of cash and a Gatling gun he just about treats like his only child. Used to be a slave owner before the war. He’s got us holed up here for the oil we got underneath the ground, and he doesn’t like no outsiders interfering with his work, oh no.”
Jeb could see the stranger’s face better now beneath his hat; it shone with interest and the prospect of adventure. He was believing the usual lie without a hitch. Jeb almost felt sorry for him, but he plowed ahead nonetheless.
“The bastard just goes ahead and puts a couple rounds of bullets into the brains of any outsiders who catch on to what he’s doing, then puts down two or three of us local folk to teach a lesson. Man’s a tyrant to his dying day, and whatever decent bones exist in his evil body broke long ago.” Jeb was
not a Christian, but he crossed himself all the same. For the effect of the story.
“Hasn’t anyone tried to stop him? Where’s the law in this town?”
“Come with me if you really want to know. And be quiet about it.”
The stranger dropped his hand from his firearm and followed Jeb away from the general store. As they walked into the heart of the rambling one-street town, the stranger wondered aloud at the lack of people outside. Jeb smiled to himself.
“Nobody comes out anymore unless Holloway wants us to. He got some lowlife bandits as some fashion of soldiers keeping the “peace” through intimidation. He’s a slippery bastard; I give him that.”
Actually, the reason nobody was out on the street was due to the fact that everyone was indoors making preparations for the Feeding, but of course Jeb didn’t tell him that. That would have gotten him asking about what the Feeding was, and that would have spurred the question as to why there were little silver pentagrams (Devil stars, the northerners called them) hanging like so many malevolent windchimes in the windows and doorways of every building in town. And they couldn’t have that just yet.
“He rules by fear,” muttered the stranger, glancing at a dismally boarded up shack to the side of the road as they passed. “I’ve seen his kind before. But I ain’t giving him a day more of that power. What’d you want to show me?”
“Just this way, stranger—there, do you see him? In front of the saloon.”
The stranger walked ahead, then stopped. His boot tracks ended abruptly at a body lying forgotten and dusty in the dirt, a pot-bellied man wearing a black suit jacket and bowler hat
thrown askew near his salt-and-pepper hair. The body was alive with flies; it was not fresh. A halo of blood, scarlet as sunset, had pooled and dried around his belly and chest. His vest was soaked black with the stuff, but the stranger bent down and plucked something from the corpse. It was a gold star.
“This fellow here was the sheriff?”
“And a dear friend.” Jeb took off his hat and held it against his chest as he looked into the man’s glossy eyes. Lester Sullivan really had been his friend, but the stubborn old ass had been the only voice of rebellion after the last Feeding. Jeb had volunteered to shoot the sheriff himself, executing him with six consecutive shots to the belly and chest (he found it improper to leave a man’s face desecrated at his own funeral). It had pained him immensely to do it, but you didn’t defy the Vast One. You couldn’t, Jeb had insisted to his friend of twenty-five years, but Lester had been foolhardy and steadfast. And case in point, Jeb thought, and not without a feeling of satisfied finality, he is now dead.
“When do y’all plan on burying him?”
“Can’t,” said Jeb. “That scumbag Holloway won’t even let us bury our dead. He just leaves ’em out to let nature take its course, and we have to watch.”
The stranger’s face was hard to read beneath his hat, but he pinned the star to his poncho without a word. Then he bent down again and closed Lester’s eyelids with grim finality. When he straightened up, his face was hard-set with bitter anger.
“I’m the law now. Where is this Holloway critter? Seems to me he’s long overdue for a bullet in the teeth.”
Jeb put a hand on the stranger’s shoulder, trying his best to summon tears on command. He got his eyes to mist up. “Bless you, stranger, bless you. Let’s get you rested and ready,
then.” He pointed to the batwing saloon doors. “There are a few decent folks in there I reckon would like to meet you.”
The next few hours were a smoky mix of tobacco, whiskey, and celebration all around inside the saloon. The townsfolk knew their lines and kept them to the letter. Jeb had hardly finished explaining the situation and what the stranger aimed to do before their new guest was swept away in a sea of thank yous and God bless yous. Jeb kept close by and steered the stranger through it all, noticing with a grim little smile that the false praise was starting to get to their new savior. He brushed most of it off with his own quiet modesty, but Jeb saw the cracks. The stranger enjoyed the love and attention and was silently basking in the chance to feel wanted. Jeb had seen people like him drunk with that kind of popularity before, and it never ceased to amaze him. If everyone in the country would just give in to the Vast One, there would be no need for such newfangled ideas of heroism! But that was all it came down to for men like the stranger, wasn’t it? Kill this bandit, stop those cattle rustlers, and you will be accepted by the people you met the day before. For the life of him, Jeb could never see the appeal of a profession like that.
Then again, he supposed it must feel good to be so wanted. The Old West was decaying rapidly in the wake of cities and fast-evolving civilization in the North, and cowpokes with it. The romanticism that enshrouded the stranger’s kind wouldn’t be around much longer, either; industrialization, that smoggy hand stretching over the nation, was a true killer of the American mythos.
He watched as the stranger tried and failed to verbally bat away the mountains of praise Ms. Annie from the shoe
shop was piling on him. Amateur cowboy. Jeb reckoned that if the stranger wanted to have a purpose in the town, he was apt to serve one very soon.
The stranger’s humbleness was strong. In fact, it only crumbled completely after Jeb had sat him down at the bar with the raucous cheers of the townsfolk at their backs and proceeded to get him so drunk (“You won’t do no killin’ without some fire in your veins,” Jeb had said when he’d protested.) that the stranger had even gone so far as to remove his hat. Jeb had found a kid beneath it, a thin-faced young man hardly out of his twenties, and he offered a silent prayer to the Vast One for being so understanding with what they had to work with. When Jeb left the stranger’s side and returned a second later with Betsy, the local whore, he thought the stranger’s eyes just might pop out of his skull. She thanked him quietly with her dark eyes, then led him upstairs to bed even though it was still only late afternoon. The last Jeb had seen of him, he was being led by his big belt buckle and looking like the happiest man from Dallas to Denver.
Jeb and the other townsfolk watched them leave, still cheering. Then they sat and waited for the steady thumping from upstairs to cease. When it finally did, Jeb instructed them to wait another ten minutes in silence. Then he led the way upstairs. The stranger had passed out, shamelessly nude, amid the tangled bedsheets in the first room. Betsy was sitting at the foot of the bed, smoking one of those newfangled cigarettes and looking extremely pleased with herself. Everyone else had formed a neat line snaking around the entire second level; they knew the plan. Jeb sent them in one by one, looking back around to see what each person had brought—that was always an interesting part of the Pre-Feeding ritual.
Mrs. Eagleton from the bakery came in with a handful
of breadcrumbs that she carefully lined the stranger’s pants pockets with. Mr. Shaw from the coat shop entered bearing a little shred of cow fat, which he proceeded to stuff down the mouth of one of the stranger’s leather boots. Mr. Addison’s choice was the riskiest; he sprinkled fresh chili powder over the stranger’s form as he slept, making sure to intersperse it thinly so as to not arouse suspicion when he awoke. This one was a daring move, but a necessary one; the Vast One liked its Feeding with a touch of spice in it. Jeb had seen Mr. Addison’s shoulders deflate in relief as he left, and he quietly patted him on the back before conducting the next resident inside.
Jeb was the last. Betsy waited for him outside the door as he entered with his own special ingredient. Hiding it was a dilemma, but in the end he decided to put the little silver pentagram in the breast pocket of the stranger’s discarded shirt. Then he left the room and lay with Betsy until the sun dipped behind the horizon and Mrs. Perkins from the barber shop came to inform them, red-faced, that it was time.
The townsfolk met the stranger in the town square at eight o’clock sharp. Jeb took care to melt into the center of the crowd instead of the front; if the stranger saw him leading the people on more than one occasion, he might start to wonder if something was up. The trick was to keep pretending to be his friend at the same time.
He made his way over to the stranger, who was testing the cylinder of his revolver by snapping it open, spinning it twice, and jerking it back with a click and a flick of his wrist. Jeb knew the purpose of the test. If the cylinder squeaked or caught upon being spun, it was unoiled and needed to be removed and cleaned before further use. The gun was as silent as the grave.
“Are you ready, son?”
The stranger spun the cylinder one last time, holstered it again, and nodded. He had regained his mysterious appearance with his hat back on his head. With the sheriff’s star at his breast, a proud sign of leadership obscuring its evil twin beneath, the stranger probably looked and felt mean enough to take on five George Holloways. Jeb was more than happy to let him think that.
“See that big ol’ tower house, right down the street? That’s the church. Holloway took it over after he arrived ’cause it looks out on the whole land for miles around. Never leaves it, just sits up on the second floor sending telegrams and making dirty money while his little Gatling gun stays pointed on the door. If you go up all quiet-like, and take out his men before they take out you, you just might pull it off.”
“All right. Now, you get everyone to stand back a bit, y’hear? I won’t be a hero if lovely Betsy is still here when the bullets start to fly,” said the stranger. Looking back on it, Jeb realized just how lucky he had been for the stranger being too smitten to inquire how Jeb knew exactly where Holloway would be in the Church. Jeb had made up the whole thing on the spot.
“Sure thing, friend. Just do this town and its fine folks proud, and in our eyes you’ll do no wrong. Give Holloway what’s coming to him, and then some, all right?”
“I’ll do more than that. I’m going to fill this bastard with so much lead he’ll get dragged right on down back to hell.”
Jeb clapped the stranger on the back one last time, adjusted the sheriff star to catch the dwindling light, and stepped back to join the rest of the town. They watched the stranger together, men and women Jeb had known his entire life with their eyes trained hungrily on the cowboy’s back. The stranger turned slightly, as if to say one last thing to them, perhaps to
Betsy, but apparently thought better of it, for he squared his shoulders, unslung his guns, and began to walk towards the building without looking back.
The people had gone deathly silent. Far away, a lost coyote cried to the rising moon, the same moon bathing the steeple in milky brilliance. Jeb had taken part in the Feeding ritual for nine years, exactly as long as the Vast One had taken up residence in their humble little town, but the holiness and finality of the whole thing always amazed him. As if the entire world had stopped its spinning for one second, just to see what would come next.
It was only when the stranger reached the brick steps leading to the large wooden entrance doors that the chanting was allowed to start. It was the voluptuous Ms. Oakley, who ran that stuffy little women’s clothing shop on the west end of town that always smelled like perfume and roses, who began it, speaking the ancient words so quietly that they were lost in the wind to any who weren’t listening for them. Soon the chant was taken up by others, eighty-seven pairs of dry lips whispering in a tongue taught to them by a dark god, or what they took for a god when it had first descended from the starry heavens. Jeb had recited the chant hundreds, if not thousands, of times throughout his life, from the moment the Vast One had breathed the language down his throat up until now, but he would never understand what it meant, never. It simply wasn’t his place as a frail, insignificant man to understand something of that magnitude. All he knew for sure was that whenever he spoke the words, his tongue and mouth would begin to heat up and itch, as if crammed with a thousand invisible fire ants. This was true power in its rawest form, or as close as humans would ever come to such a thing.
Their chanting was beginning to leave a noticeable hum
on the previously still air, and the stranger slowed slightly in his gait, looking around as if confused. Jeb knew he should be worried, but he wasn’t. Better anyway for the stranger to notice a faint buzzing in his ear rather than the pentagram in his right breast pocket, which Jeb knew was beginning to heat up like a cooked fish. Much better, indeed.
The chanting continued, rising to an almost audible pitch. Jeb wiped sweat from his brow and mustache as the stranger mounted the steps, holstered his guns for a brief moment, and reached for the ornate door handles. The second his fingers touched the ironwork, the chanting stopped all at once. Jeb felt the last syllable hover on his tongue, then fade away with the magic it possessed. Now the only sound in the town was an eerie desert wind that tickled the shutters and chilled his bones despite the heavy deerskin jacket he wore. Every eye was trained on the stranger as he grasped the handles and threw open the doors.
All that greeted him was impenetrable darkness. Clutching his guns, the stranger took a hesitant step inside, then retreated. When he turned back to the crowd, his face was, for once, very readable beneath his hat. It shone with childish fear.
“It’s cold,” he said. “Why—”
The last sentence the stranger ever uttered was cut short when a billowing black essence snaked out from between the open doors and wrapped itself around his waist. Jeb could have rightly called it a tentacle, like a squid or an octopus might possess, but then again, squid and octopi do not have little wisps of black vapor trailing from their appendages in little licks of midnight. It was an essence in the most primal meaning of the word, and beyond it was Black, unyielding Black that writhed and twisted and filled the place where prayer had once
commenced. Nothing there now, no more pews or podiums or holy books. Just the Vast One, and the Vast One’s hunger. It seemed to take the poor fellow an impossible amount of time to process what was coiling itself around his waist, and when he finally did, he emitted a shrill, piercing shriek that rang and echoed in Jeb’s ears minutes after it had stopped. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a few dead souls down at the cemetery had risen from their graves just to ask what in the hell all the fuss was about. He really didn’t see why the stranger was going so god-awful crazy; the whole business would be over in a few more seconds.
And how right he was. Another appendage detached itself from the squirming blackness of the church’s interior and wrapped itself firmly around the stranger’s upper chest and neck, reducing his screams to dull squeaks. The chanting had started up again, but Jeb was content to simply watch this time. The stranger managed to twist around, one last vain attempt at escaping his fate, and for a split second his terrified eyes locked with Jeb’s. Then the Vast One ripped him in half.
There was no blood. That, like most anything that got too close to the church, was sucked up and dispersed throughout the Vast One’s inner recesses before it could hit the ground—or them. Jeb watched the stranger’s limp form get swallowed up by the darkness, first his legs, then the torso. Really faceless now, ain’tcha? He wondered if the big silver revolvers would take a longer time to digest before the next Feeding rolled around. He doubted it.
Looking around, Jeb saw the crowd beginning to disperse, talking with one another as they went. Some people went back to their shops, some to their beds and homes above those shops, and most headed for the saloon, off to a long night of heavy drinking and laughter in honor of another successful Feeding
ceremony. In honor of looking upon the face of death and living to tell the tale, hurrah, hurrah.
Jeb had his own way of celebrating. Taking Betsy by the hand, he began the short walk back to his room above the general store, back to a night with his lover while the blessing of the Feeding rested over their bedpost. Normal work would start up again tomorrow; the townsfolk would go about their daily tasks with patience, all while lying in wait for next month’s ceremony. Tomorrow. Tonight, however, the whole township could stand aglow with dark energy and power.
And back in the church, the Vast One slept, its belly full of tarnished six-gun cylinders and crushed dreams.
WITH GRATITUDE
This magazine exists due to the hard work and vision of many people. First, we’d like to thank all the writers who submitted to our magazine and our flash fiction contests. Thank you for sharing your stories with us. We loved reading all of them.
We thank our dedicated staff and board members, who have poured countless volunteer hours into reading submissions, attending meetings, and shaping this magazine from start to finish.
Our thanks go out to the staff members who helped us on our journey, but departed to focus on their own: Megan Bjerke, Deanna Lutzeier, Madison Muschalek, Michael Speegle, Richard Wood, and Chris Yeazel.
Thank you to our faculty advisor, Lisa Diercks, for bringing her experience and support to our publication, especially with reviewing volume layout.
And finally, to our readers: thank you.
�UT HO� BIOS
TATUM ROGERS (“Whirlpool”) (they/them) is a lover of brightly colored hair and all things fantastical. Currently, they are an MFA candidate in Fiction at Emerson College. In their spare time, they like to create and consume stories that are diverse, magical, and fun.
SUSAN
MATTEUCCI (“Neither of These Men Are Named Steve”) is a junior Creative Writing major at Emerson College. She has been published in other school magazines, such as her science fiction story “Changing the Past” which was published by Generic Magazine. She is a reader and a writer by day. By night, she is hopefully asleep.
TIM O’NEAL (“Face Thieves”) has sold eight previous short horror stories. His recent publishers include the UK-based
RedCape Publishing, the Canadian Frostzone Zine, and Skywatcher Press. He was a judge for the California Writing Club’s Tales of the Pandemic contest. He lives in Boulder, CO. Here’s a link to his Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Tim-ONeal/e/B07RN9JSQ3/ ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_7.
TJ O’SHEA (“Shapes of Warmth”) lives in New Jersey and works in New York City, and therefore considers herself an expert in pizza and bagels. Her debut novel, Beyond the Blue, was published on February 22, 2022 by Bella Books.
ANNA CARSON (“The Witch of Briar Wood”) is an Emerson College freshman who will be studying publishing as a Writing, Literature, and Publishing major. She aspires to be a fantasy editor, but in the meantime, she reads and copyedits for Emerson’s Stork Literary Magazine and the Emerson Review. She loves traveling—her favorite city is Paris, France—and reading; her favorite book is Rhythm of War by Brandon Sanderson.
MARY KRAKOW (“Mystery Man”) retired from teaching in 2015 with the intent to realize her dream of becoming an author. So far, she has written three manuscripts for middle-grade readers, a few magazine articles, and over two hundred flash fiction stories.
THOMAS GAFFNEY (“Names”) fell in love with horror after reading Stephen King’s IT and had been reading and writing horror stories ever since. His collection of short stories, Stranger Things Have Happened, has won a number of 2019 and 2020 awards for horror. And his horror short stories have
appeared in Theme of Absence, The Dread Machine, Bards & Sages Quarterly, and Another Realm. He is working on his MFA in Popular Fiction and Publishing at Emerson College and is a member of the Horror Writers Association.
BEN JACKSON (“The Seven Secret Discoveries of the Captain of the Cantata Lucania on the Occasion of Running Aground”) (MFA ’24) is a writer, producer, father, and activist. His work appears in the Boston Globe, The Hill, W BUR’s Cognoscenti, The Penmen Review, and anywhere else he can con an editor into publishing his drivel. When not writing, you can usually find him giving the NRA a headache, swearing on Twitter, or embarrassing his daughter with his TikToks, where you can find him as @bjacksonwrites. He lives in Natick, Massachusetts.
HANNAH BARCLAY (“Measurements”) is an Austin, Texas-based writer, currently working to complete an MFA in Popular Fiction Writing and Publishing from Emerson College. When she is not reading, writing, or working as a college admissions counselor, you can find her running nature trails and hanging out at local breweries.
CHARLIE WILLIAMS (“The Feeding”) is a WLP major from Emerson College’s class of 2025. He is the four-time recipient of a Scholastic Art and Writing award, and his work has appeared in several publications including Your Mag, Five Cent Sound, and Maudlin House Literary. He has several irrational fears, the worst of them being public speaking, brain amoebas, and irony.