Category: Fiction

Blood

The blood first appeared to her as a couple of droplets beside her pillow one morning when she awoke. She reacted in disgust as expected and swiftly checked herself for any wounds, or any source of bleeding. She found nothing and went about her day without much thought or worry.

The second time it appeared, she heard it first. She was just getting out of the shower when the telltale drip drip drip of a leaky faucet caught her attention. She fiddled with the shower knobs for a moment before making her way over to the sink and peering into the porcelain basin. She had automatically recoiled at the sight of scarlet splatter marks that clashed harshly against the pale surface of the bathroom sink. She watched as another drop of blood dripped from the faucet and splashed against the sink before she quickly turned on the faucet, watching with relief as the water washed the offensive liquid down the drain.

Several more times throughout the week, she ran into instances of mysterious blood. She found it smudged against surfaces, smeared across the pavement, and splashed against buildings. It occurred so frequently that it was beginning to send her pulse racing every time she saw the ruby hue in unexpected places, and a chill went racing down her spine when the blood went unnoticed by other people.

But that had only been the beginning.

One morning, she bit into her breakfast sandwich and immediately recoiled as the unwelcome iron taste flooded her mouth. And then she dropped the sandwich to her plate and leapt to her feet in horror as she watched blood ooze from her breakfast in thick, nearly congealed streams. She gagged and retched, but the taste stuck with her throughout the day. She spent the next several days methodically checking everything she ate but never found the blood.

Several nights later, she laid awake for six hours as the sound of dripping echoed around her room and she watched as blood trickled down the corners of her room in long, endless streams. Her palms grew clammy throughout the night as she imagined the blood pooling into her plush carpet, staining it with red. The sight of its pristine appearance did nothing to quell the nerves in her stomach the following morning.

She floated through her days, fading in and out of reality as she awaited the blood’s next appearance. She wondered when it would come to her and in what fashion it would appear, her body practically vibrating with fear at the thought of it. With every day that it stayed away, she only grew more and more anxious, more and more agitated. She knew that she couldn’t allow herself to grow too comfortable or complacent. She knew that the moment she relaxed, the blood would come back, worse than before.

It was at her part-time job, scooping ice cream at her local ice cream joint, that it finally came back.

She had been serving customers all day, barely able to conjure up so much as a smile, let alone any sort of friendly customer service. Just as she had handed a small child his ice cream cone, she turned back to the next customer and froze in her tracks, a horrified gasp rushing sharply from her lungs. In her shock, she stumbled backwards, her feet tripping over each other and sending her straight to the floor. She hardly registered the pain rattling through her bones from the fall; her terrified eyes remained on the person in front of her. She watched helplessly as their eyes, two empty gaping sockets, spewed fountains of hot blood in endless gushes. They surged forward as she went crashing to the floor, opening their mouth as if to ask if she was alright. But no words came out – only more blood. It surged out of them like vomit, coating her in the liquid from head to toe. And she could do nothing but scream.

Author Bio

Brenna Doyle, She/Her, CSU San Marcos, Literature and Writing Studies. Brenna Doyle is currently studying at CSUSM in order to break into the editing and publishing world. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, writing, baking, and taking care of my two kids.

Wet Pavement Always by My Side

I stepped off the public bus at my chosen stop, with everything I cared about slung over my shoulder. I thanked the driver as I left, and once my shoes hit the moist, dark asphalt, I heard the hissing sound of the door closing behind me and the bus’s breaks loosening as it began to leave me at my stop. About five-hundred feet from the bus stop was a diner that was still open this late at night. I made my way over to have something to eat, dragging my feet from exhaustion and pain.

I closed my hand around the big door handle to the diner and let myself through the first set of double doors into the foyer. Light rain began falling on my walk over, so I wiped my shoes off on the rug and shook my head with dark, dripping curls to be courteous to the late-night employees. They don’t deserve to clean up after my messes as everyone else in my life has. A little bell rang as I pushed the next pair of doors open and step into the clear area by the host podium. I looked around the diner and it is practically empty; sounds of the employees back in the kitchen clanging dishes and the sizzling of food on the stove, there were only a few other customers scattered around, mostly truck drivers taking a break from their long journey across states.

 I stood and waited a couple minutes before I heard a woman shout from inside the kitchen. “Go ahead and sit wherever you want! I’ll get to you in just a few!

I did as she said and picked a booth seat next to the front windows of the diner. I sat my backpack on the very inside of the booth as I slid in after it. I still kept it very close me; the zipper was about to burst as threads of fabric was starting to fray, and I could just barely see the glimmer of the picture frame I managed to shove in there on my way out the door. Within a few more minutes after sitting down, the woman who called out to me came out from the kitchen with a tray of food and drinks. She walked over to one of the men I presumed to be a traveling truck driver, sitting in a booth about 10 feet diagonally to the right from where I sat, and placed down his food and drinks. From what I could see he ordered a stack of soft, classic buttermilk pancakes, but with a side of sliced bananas to add as he pleased, a plate of fluffy hash browns and sausage links cooked just right, and I picked up a whiff of crispy bacon floating from his table to mine. The drinks that accompanied his meal was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a hot cup of coffee, but I assumed it was decaf since it was close to 12:30 in the morning.

The woman stepped away after delivering his food and walked into the kitchen with her tray. As I sat, patiently waiting, my mind began to drift and think of the truck driver. I wondered who he was or where he came from. He sat alone in a diner just off the freeway, just focused on his food and probably a place to sleep, most likely in his truck. I wondered if he had family where he came from. Does he have a loving wife? Perhaps a husband? What about kids? As I kept peering at him, it was clear he was a girl-dad; there were remnants of glittery pink nail polish on his right hand finger nails, possibly from a make-over night with his princess. A sticker on his travel mug caught my eye as well. It was a sticker of Hello Kitty and her bunny friend, Melody I think? I wondered if he missed his family dearly when he was on his long hauling trips. I hoped that the stickers and chipped nail polish were a sweet reminder of who he was going home to.

But what if he was someone like me? Someone who disappointed so many people in his life that all one really could do was leave. Someone that had almost nothing to lose, so he chose the trucking and traveling life for corporations. Was that a plate shattering in the kitchen? Did he feel lonely without people? Lonely even though he was the one who made the brash decision to pack up his life and leave? Why is it so hot in here? It was freezing a second ago. I supposed the constant reminders of letting everyone down finally got to him and drove him away from everything he ever knew. Is that still bacon I’m smelling or am I losing it?

“Hun?” I heard faintly, but I was not yet sure who was speaking. My eyes locked and fixated at the man’s table, wishing, hoping he did not live the lonely fate painted in my mind. Did I pack my meds with me? My vision blurred and dissociated as I was captured in the life of this man, my face feeling wet, my heart aching in my chest as I heard the voice again but louder, and a soft hand touched my shoulder. “Sonny! Are you alright?”

It was the woman taking and serving orders. She was looking down at me with a motherly concern in her eyes, an expression I had not personally experienced. I peered up at her and silently nodded, but as I did so, I felt something sliding down my face. I then realized I had been crying when imagining the life of the man across from me. I quickly realized those spiraling thoughts were more closely related to me rather than the man trying to eat his dinner.

Author Bio

Kristen Pierce, She/her, California State University San Marcos, Majoring in Literature & Writing and minoring in German.

Kristen is currently studying literature and writing at CSUSM and enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. She enjoys reading fantasy, young romance, and mystery/thriller stories. She is originally from Seattle, Washington and has lived the latter half of her life in California. Kristen hopes to use her literature and writing degree to work for either an independent or major press and/or publishing company in the Pacific Northwest, while also hoping to publish her own written work one day.

Immortality: A Scene

Once I had conversed with a being 
So beloved by the Earth
That he was unable to leave it’s grasp
This man alone
Had been a witness to the creation
And eventually the end
He was born alongside the Earth
Likewise
The only way he can escape
Is for the celestial being to be no more
All he wished for was death
But he was chained with responsibilities
That kept him from passing
To sacrifice all that you dream of
In order to carry the weight of duty
Is by order
The decree of the immortal
So he waits until he is no longer needed
To pass in peace
And to have his wish 

Alas!
This is the curse of the immortal
For he is doomed to forever be needed
And cared about by someone
However a contradiction occurred to me
For even though the immortal wishes for death
He still searches 
For those living a very finite existence
It seemed to me he had been
Secretly hoping to find a new chain 
To bind him to this land

Our conversation was coming to a close
As we bid farewell
I looked into his eyes 
They looked as if a shadow was permanently cast upon them
For there was no light permeating from them
And I began to wonder to myself
If it is possible to be dead
Even if you were created with infinite life

Truly if there is life after death
The gods had better have a good explanation
As to why this man
Given infinite possibilities
Is cursed to only have death 
Engulf his mind

Bio: Anon Ymous

This writer chose to be anonymous for their post. They enjoy writing in their free time along with spending time with family.

The Flower That Always Wept

In a peaceful park, full of greenery and an abundance of colors ranging from red to orange to yellow. The parents are sitting on the picnic blankets near the blue lake. The children run around playing soccer, frisbee, or creating flower crowns. The children always love to go for the geraniums to compliment the cosmos. Then there is me, the lonely blue flower that grows near the lake. No children wish to come admire me and choose me for their pretty crowns. As I look from afar I grow jealous and yet again I close up to weep.

The next day I open up to bask in the gleaming sun. “Ah, it’s another cool day at the park”, I think to myself. I then turn around to see the children playing and the adults laughing, but it is weird. I do not see any reason to be happy today. Yes the sun is warm, but all I see is dullness. It is weird how everything is so colorful, but all I see is dullness in the air. As I am about to close up again, I notice a shadow come over me and hear, “David come look at this blue flower! Isn’t it so pretty?”. I look up and see a little brunette girl, and then let the words sink into me. All of a sudden I started to notice that the sun would never be as bright as this little girl’s smile.

I have come to learn that the little brunette girl’s name is “Lucy”. She would come and visit me often and play around me. I felt odd knowing I was getting such attention, but at the same time I was happy to finally get noticed. Lucy would often talk to me about how pretty I was and how I should shine my bright blue colors out to the world, but every time I looked in the reflection of the lake I would only see black and white. As time went on Lucy would bring me pretty rocks and small twigs to complement my shade. I started to have some confidence in myself and slowly started to feel myself grow stronger. I was so unaware of what was going on around me that I didn’t even notice how weak little Lucy’s demeanor got.

It has now been a week since little Lucy visited me. I was starting to get worried that she got sick and tired of me and decided to turn her back towards me. It is another hot summer day here at the park. The children are running around doing the same thing like it is their routine that they must do. I am slowly starting to find it enjoyable to look at my surroundings. I can finally see colors because of Lucy showing me more to life. I turn to look at my reflection and notice how blue the water is and how my wilted self became fuller with color. Then I noticed a shadow behind me, but it wasn’t Lucy, instead it was David. I knew something bad happened because Lucy was no longer with him. I received the unfortunate news of Lucy losing the battle to her illness. After receiving such news I close up and weep again.

My world has yet again lost its colors. Who will love me now that Lucy is not here with me. I needed her to be here to know I exist, to spend time with me, to tell me I am important. What is the point of being here now that she isn’t in this world breathing and running with the other children. I turn to look at the children playing and realize that the world has lost its color. It is futile to escape the situation I am in. I cannot escape this pain and loneliness I feel. Night has fallen, and I yet again close up and weep until I fall asleep.

I had a dream about Lucy last night. I was in a meadow. It was me and the green grass surrounding me. The area was so pretty and the sun was so bright. For once I felt the nice warm feeling again. I turn to see a little girl in front of me. I could not see her face due to how bright it was, but her voice sounded just like Lucy’s. I felt tears well up in my non-existent eyes, but before I could say anything to her she interrupted. “Why are you losing your beautiful color, my cute little flower? You were so full of life when I was around, and now you look weak just like how I was. You have such a long life to live. I do not wish for you to live it mourning me and thinking negative thoughts about yourself and others.” As she was speaking to me I did not notice the tears that were falling. Then I feel her hands touch my petals and wipe the tears with her thumbs. She lifted my head and I was finally able to see her bright smile one last time. Before I woke she spoke one last sentence to me, “Please witness the world I was not able to
explore fully!”

I burst awake like my soul left my body, but then got dragged back in. I looked around and it was the normal park with children, but something was different. Everything looked so colorful…so vibrant. For once I didn’t feel like I was envious of others. I felt at peace with myself. I looked to see the children playing and I felt joy just by watching them. I didn’t care if they came to visit me or not, I was just enjoying life at the moment. I turned around to look into the bright blue lake and saw myself. I looked beautiful and full of color. I was no longer wilting, but thriving. I admired the scenery that was at hand until nightfall and decided to close up to the night, finally feeling comfortable with myself.

Author Bio

Mae Salah is a Literature and writing major along with an education minor at California State University San Marcos. She enjoys reading, walking, and writing in her free time. She enjoys cold days where she can snuggle up in blankets and have a good read or watch T.V. She also loves to try new things and food whenever she gets the chance.

Wrath

Gareth crested the hill and stepped onto the rock-strewn ledge overlooking the valley far below. His legs shook from the effort of the long climb, but he ignored these minor discomforts. Today rage propelled him. Abornial stood before him, dressed in a fine silk tunic, smug smile plastered across his face.

“Gareth,” he said in greeting.

Gareth said nothing, he simply stood there staring.

“O come now; we both know what we’re here to do,” Abornial said. “You might as well greet me. Your silence does nothing to intimidate me.”

“I have no desire to banter with a snake like you,” Gareth responded. “Your visage disgusts my eyes. I will not have your name foul my mouth.”

Abornial wandered back and forth upon the plateau, making a show of his complete disinterest.

“Gareth my boy, drop that self-righteous act!” Abornial said. “You don’t have to play the hero with me. I know she was just a warm body to fill your bed at night.”

Gareth seethed with quiet anger at these words. “I loved her, and she loved me,” his only response.

“Interesting…I was not aware that whores could feel love, and she was a whore Gareth, this we both know.”

Gareth’s blade leaped from its scabbard as he swung in a vicious arc for Abornial’s throat. Abornial’s own sword came up to parry the attack and in a swift motion he shoved Gareth back. Gareth instantly regained his footing and charged in for an underhanded blow attempting to open Abornial from hip to shoulder. Abornial danced out of the path of the blade and lashed out. The impact of the blow on his blade shook Gareth’s bones to their core. Abornial liked to play the part of foppish nobleman, but beneath his eccentric attire was a body corded with thick slabs of muscle. The two warriors clashed steel once, then twice more, before both moving back to assess their opponent.

“This is where you die Abornial! Believe me when I tell you that you shall never walk down this mountaintop. I will leave your body here exposed to the elements.” 

Abornial said, “You want me to apologize? Beg for your mercy? For killing some wretched whore?! Look, Gareth, I…”

He lunged in for a quick thrust, intending to skewer Gareth on the tip of his blade before he could react. But Gareth sidestepped the thrust and slammed the pommel of his sword into the murderer’s face. Abornial’s nose exploded in a shower of crimson.

            “I will leave you here,” Gareth said. “My sword driven through your wasting body and into this very earth we stand upon. People from all over the ten kingdoms will speak of my wrath here. A monument will be erected. Not in honor of your memory, but as a precautionary against your folly.”

            Abornial laughed, a wicked sound full of delight. “Kill me you may! But that won’t change anything! You will still burn with hatred for yourself! Her mind betrayed her in the end you know. O how she cried out for you Gareth as my knife kissed her fair skin again and again! I tried to assure her you would not be joining us, but she would have none of it! Come to think of it, she may have actually thought that I was you. After far too long she begged for death, and I being the merciful lord I am, granted her final request.” 

            The two warriors leaped for each other once more, the sound of their blades an ominous prediction of the storm clouds in the distance. Abornial tried to cut Gareth’s legs out from under him with a sweeping strike. Gareth easily stepped over the whistling blade. His own sword whipped out and took Abornial in the arm. A patch of fabric began to darken where Gareth left his mark.

            Realizing the duel was nearing its end, Abornial screamed in frustration, “You’re pathetic! How could you, a man all of us hold in such high regard, have fallen for a common whore?”  

            Gareth advanced on Abornial in a fury of vengeance, the tempest of his onslaught too much for the wounded lordling. Abornial fell to the ground in his haste to retreat.

            “You could never understand the love I felt for that woman,” Gareth said. “Not in a hundred lifetimes. It is beyond your capacity.”

“You would kill one of your own?” Abornial screamed. “You know we need all the skilled warriors we can get! You know what is coming!”

Gareth let the point of his sword lower as he stopped to consider Abornial’s words.

“Monsters to our fore, surrounded by conniving allies,” Gareth said. “Even so, I would not have you stand beside me.”

Abornial replied, “Fool! You will…”

Gareth’s blade took him through the mouth, exploding out the back of his skull and driving deeply into the earth. 

Author Bio

Owen Ybarra is a senior at California State University, San Marcos where he is majoring in Literature and Writing. He is an avid fantasy reader and as a result most of his writing is fantastical in nature. Owen lives by the beach in Oceanside and tries to surf most mornings. 

Exhaling and Inhaling the Light

Anger and shame. He could feel it in his throat, it wasn’t a sensation he was proud of, but it was a sensation, nonetheless. He knew he was bound to lose control sooner or later. He’d rather it be later than sooner. His head pounding at the screaming in his head; begging him to attack, to hurt them before they could hurt him, to leave now before it all came to an end. Leave before they could shove you into a pine box, his heart screamed at him, but he couldn’t be bothered to move an inch. Or rather he had to restrain himself from moving at all. The only thing he couldn’t be bothered to do was put his light out.

Looking down upon the same damned city that spit him out and dragged him back in; he felt himself chuckle a bit at the thought of him believing that he could really leave it all behind. The sound of gravel crushing underneath an intruder’s feet brought him back to the present, forcing him to have more restraint, and to appear relaxed when all he wanted to do was leap from the ledge and leave the damned city. He was slipping and that would be the real death of him. How foolish of him really. Fool him once and that’s his fault.

“Hey, buddy… What’s going on? What are you doing up here? It’s not exactly safe to be up here. You could…” The unwelcoming voice said, their voice wavering with concern and slight curiosity as they took slow and deliberate steps toward him. Ignoring the sudden stop of gravel crunching under the traitor’s steps and the loud gasp that followed; he stubbed out his dying light, brought out his parliaments, and lit himself a new one. He put the light to his lips and took a long drag; his lungs screamed for a breath of release, and he exhaled slowly. He ignored his betrayer as they struggled to get their breathing under control and as they stared at the back of his head; he took another drag.

Inhale. “N-no.” Their voice shook with tones of disbelief. Exhale. “Y-you’re-” Inhale. “J-Jay?” Their voice shook even more before they took a sharp breath and cleared their throat. “Is that you?” Exhale.

He tapped the ashes off, some blowing into the distance as the wind swept through. It was a bit chilly out tonight, good thing he made the right decision and brought a jacket. The mixture of smoke and chilly wind filled his senses, it felt like he was home again. How ironic. His intruder further interrupted his moment of home, gravel crunching under their shoes as they stepped a bit closer.

“Jay? H-how-” Inhale. “ W-what are you doing here?” Exhale.

Jason couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle and took another drag. What was he doing here? Huh? What a funny way to ask him how he’s not six feet underground. What a funny way to greet him home. He took another hit and held the smoke in longer than he should have this time, his lungs screaming at him again. A couple of beats went by, and he stubbed out his cigarette again, finally exhaled the smoke, and let it sink into the seams of his favorite leather jacket and black worn-out jeans. In a way, it felt nice. He looked up at the night sky which was scattered with stars and universes that he could only hope to visit in his dreams. It made him feel alive again at the thought of exploring the lights within the sky. It was a beautiful night; ironic how that was the only good thing that happened that night. Without further delay, Jay got up from the ledge, walked towards his moment ruiner, and spoke,

“Didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to be back home or more so allowed to be alive, Dickie? And I’m doing fantastic, thanks for being the only one who bothered to ask. Pray, tell? What are you doing here? Where’s the rest of ya?” The gravel crunched under his backstabber’s shoes as he stumbled back, caught off guard by Jason’s sudden voice and presence. A flash of guilt and confusion passed over Dick’s face, before it settled on relief. Relief? Now, why would the bastard feel relief? “Ya know what, forget it, don’t even bother to tell me. Now, the thing I wanna know the most is how did ya and the Brady Bunch know I was here? Matter of fact, how can I possibly help with the latest assignment? Since that’s clearly why you’re here right?”

He didn’t have to turn around to know that he hit a soft spot or that the holier-than-thou piece of shit flinched under his patronizing questions. He knew what a dick he was being, no pun intended, but he also knew that he was allowed to do so, especially after what they did to him.

“Of course, you’re allowed home, Jay! We missed you! We- I’ve been waiting for you! Would’ve been nice to get a message or call, we could have thrown a homecoming party or something. And about last time, I know we have our differences but –” He exclaimed, his words desperate and small.

“Differences, dickie!? Are you fucking kidding me?! Differences are when we argue over different sports teams or ice cream flavors! Not leaving me behind when I need you the most!” Jason yelled, anger lacing his voice. “Matter of fact let’s get real for a second, I’d call it, ‘leaving your partner for dead because your boss ordered it’! You left me and now I gotta pick up the pieces, while you continue on with your life! For fucksake, you’re acting like it never happened! Did you miss me when I was alive or possibly dead!? Go on, tell me how much you fucking missed me!?!”

A beat went by, and nothing was said. Soon gravel crushing underneath Dick’s shoe filled the air and then there was nothing. Tch, of course, he left him. Of course. Soon the silence suffocated him in a way that the smoke never could. It made him feel more rage and it proved his point. He shouldn’t want to be here, but here he was. Over and over again. Coming back here after everything was Jason’s mistake. What a fool to believe otherwise. He pulled another parliament, put it to his lips, and he lit the light, and inhaled. Exhale. Inhale. He could feel the smoke wrap around him. The same routine, the same night. The same damn thing. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling as the trembling took over his body, each time he inhaled and exhaled. The smoke felt like home, but his home burned to ashes ages ago.

Author Bio

Alex Lopez Cruz, She/they, Cal state San Marcos, field of study is psychology. Alex Lopez Cruz is a full-time student who in her free time loves to write anything from short stories, poems, to full blown chapter books (that’s if they’re given the time to do so)! She often writes late at night and loves to drink coffee while doing so! They’ll write just about anything, however her favorite genre to write is angst.

Avarium

     Benjamin sat behind his typewriter. He stacked paper into a neat pile, tapped it on the desk, inserted, stretched his arms to top of roller coaster proportions, yawned like a morose zoo lion making his obligatory movement for the day, put his right index to j, his left index to f, and settled in to do the work.

     But he was parched.

     He put the kettle on. Pacing, he let some light through. After all, he had scintillating stories to write, Dickensian triumphs where hope prevailed, intricacies of human neurosis explored with Nabokovian eloquence.

     He frowned.

     Perhaps the mood called for the psychological gloom Henry James created. He closed the curtains.

     Which reminded him. He tightened several screws on his typewriter, tapping the paper again, hopefully having resolved the rattle that kept him from writing yesterday. He sat with his tea. Frowned.

     He decided he was his own man. Benjamin drew the blinds half way again, leaving a little hope in the gloomy room, perfectly analogous to what he wished to accomplish with his own writing. Smug smiles for our genius. 

     Left index f. Right index j. Breathe.

     One demerit for arrogance.

     Had Katie called yet? Worry creased his brow. On the fire escape, a pigeon pecked at the birdfeeder. Its head struck down. He thought of keys hammering letters when it pecked. He pulled the lever and settled back in. The lever reminded him of the bolt action on his father’s M-14. The one that was really in a war, with the scratches and chips to prove it. Those thoughts were not conducive to productive writing, however. Benjamin thought again of birds.

     That was it. He’d write about birds.

     A period piece? Thematically, what can you represent with birds you can’t with humans. They can fly, obviously.  They sing. The boys are prettier a lot of the time, that’s different. There’s vultures and hummingbirds and whole groups they call murders.

     Ahhh. 

     He found it. The muse descended. His muse would now be a parrot, leaning over to squawk all avant garde in his ear. Yes, a parrot that spoke Latin! Put it in the story. What’s that Musilio? The side without the hearing aid please.

     He typed: Melvin Andrews ran an aviarium on the corner of Juniper and 13th.

     Not quite.

     He looked up avarium. In a dictionary. No internet here. Thus, thusly, thusilio, the typewriter. It prevented distraction. Benjamin, afterall, was a professional.

     Avarium was a no go. Aviary. That would do. His muse squawked consent.

     Again: Melvin inherited an old aviary from his grandfather. Where wings once flapped, spiders dwelled. The stones were damp, moldy.

     Haunted aviaries wouldn’t do.

     Once more, with some depth for our poor Melvin: Melvin stood at his mother’s grave, destitute of meaning now. He looked up to the sky, its sparse clouds, infinite stove flame blue, he questioned the audacity of an existence where such a pristine day could arise in his sorrow. With chin high, he asked the universe, God, whoever was tuned in at the moment, Why? Why? Why? A splat of bird shit hit his chin. Some cultures, according to his mother, believed this was good luck.

     Benjamin laughed at his wit. He did that often. A giggling Narcissus before a funhouse mirror. He stared at the words a while, scrunching his nose, then ripped the paper from the typewriter and threw the crumpled ball across the room. It landed at the foot of a mountain of paper balls beside an empty waste basket.

     He paced.

     Swept a little. To get his mind working. 

     Washed the dishes and read the scene from Blood Meridian where the Comanches rained down on the kid. For inspiration.

     Sat. Placed his left index on f, his right on j. Sighed. A choked little sob rattled up his throat.

What Remains

 I hear them through the night. The beams above me creak and groan like moored vessels. I shut my eyes and squeeze until colors blossom in the darkness. Again I lie festering in cold piss until dawn. 

     My gruel’s bland as the hills I’ve grown accustomed to. I eat a spoonful and head out. The Italian who described hell as a frozen wasteland knew more than he’s given credit for. Harsh winter greets my cheeks with fangs and I lower my eyes. Goody Hutchinson and Rebecca Nurse are waiting. They scream and feign convulsions in the bank as I pass. When I’m far enough I hear cackles. It’s funny, if you could hear them you’d probably think of witches.

     At the meeting house-God only knows why we haven’t burned it from our memory-I move my lips and fall to my knees when it’s time. Their eyes follow me. I catch their murmurs when I cross a threshold. A few still greet me at least, most with just nods. These days my face has forgotten its smile. I’m bleak as the January fields and my heart is just as frigid.      

     I had a lover for a time. His name was Jason. He was a fine man, unconcerned with the town’s gossip. At least, for a time. I thought the dark clouds over my life had finally parted. They ruined that too. Not the town’s people, though they tried.

     It was them.

     Jason woke in pain one morning after we’d made love. The bedding was spotted burgundy. Small punctures covered his back. Blood soaked my hands, and although I pleaded with all the might I could muster-a pathetic amount if I’m honest-his heart had hardened against me. He inquired of the townsfolk and they told him what we’d done. They said I tried to imitate the devil’s mark. Elizabeth Hubbard, sowing discord again. Ha! Sowing discord into the flesh of the only man that ever came close to loving me.

     I’m ashamed to say I tried harder to convince the people in the meeting house that I was under the devil’s affliction than I did to convince Jason to stay.

    Mary Walcott assured me it’s only guilt. She heard them for a time, she says. So did Abigail. I believed Abigail. “Hallucinations,” Mary calls them. Tell me, can you converse with hallucinations? Do I imagine the rope marks on my throat? These scars? Am I imagining the rotting smell that wafts through my room when I hear them?

     I’ve talked to a few of the others. Sarah, Mercy, Betty Parish. She was so young. Susceptible to our foolishness. She’s married now. A few towns away, happy. I’m happy for her. Abigail walked into the woods one day and never returned. I saw her pale face at the edge of the forest a month later. She was nude, pale as a rabbit’s ass. When I saw she’d finally put on some weight I knew she was no longer with us.

     I suppose I’m happy for her as well.

     Which hell is worse, what awaits those who take their own lives, or the continuous torment of your past sins paraded before you? I’ve tried to pray. No words come. I wonder whether God even hears. How many women and men did we send swinging from the ends of ropes? I regret I’ve been too cowardly to tie my own.

      This is what my life has become. While the people of Salem go on as if nothing happened.

     I look down while I walk through the village and hear the syllables of my name stretched in a dirge. 

     El-iz-a-beth.

    Last week I noticed movement from the pile of boulders behind the Miller’s barn. I walked a little closer. Rocks rolled to the dirt as the pile shifted, a withered hand reached through the stones and grasped at the sky. Giles Corey has joined my procession. 

     The path to the meeting house is lined with the accused, writhing and pointing my way with rotting fingers. Red rings are burnt into their purple and bloated necks from where they hanged. Giles is flat and deformed. Abigail stands in the distance. Somber as ever. 

     Last night the beams squeaked and I couldn’t resist. I looked. I saw hanging feet, swarming with flies and spinning above me like an infant’s mobile set up by devils. The terror of what I’d heard each night clogged my throat and stifled my screams. Goody Parker’s face spun into view with a smile as happy as a doll’s and eyes black as buttons.

     Tomorrow I’ll go to Goody Miller’s and borrow some rope.

Author Bio

Chris Bonner is a senior at Cal State San Marcos. He lives in San Diego with his girlfriend, daughters, and horde of feral cats. He enjoys unsettling people with words and perpetually failing at basketball.

The Morning Paper

Once a week–no, sometimes twice–the old-man gets to hear the gentle thump on his door.

Even Winny, a black-coated blue-eyed cat, finds a pep in her step and perks up at the sound of it. For a while, it would arrive as soon as the little ding for his coffee went off to let him know it was done brewing. It no longer arrives at the same time every week anymore, though this doesn’t bother him. He enjoys the lack of consistency. In his old age, he believes consistency will lead to his inevitable death. That was something his wife Charlotte believed and then instilled in him. Charlotte was rather superstitious. Her family was involved in the occult while she was growing up. She told him early in their relationship that she didn’t like to speak about her childhood, so he never asked. He knew her as the woman she was, and that was good enough for him.

The paper hasn’t arrived yet this morning, a stroke of luck. It gives him time to brew coffee and head to the store. He grabs two mugs from the cabinet—a dark translucent mug with some engravings on it and a simplistic white mug with a small drawing of a man fishing into a bucket. He fills them to the brim with hot water to keep warm while he’s away.

The old-man’s hobbled home is an old fisherman’s supply shop on the water. The front end remains that of the fisherman’s shop, the back end is what he and Charlotte made into a home. A small kitchen, and a bedroom that matches its size. The kitchen is old but held together well and surrounded by windows, along with a backdoor view of the misty endless sea.

There was once a rocky wooden bridge that connected it to town, but that has long since crumbled into the sea. The old-man takes a small raft into town now. He doesn’t recall when it crumbled. He believes it was sometime after Charlotte passed, it could have been slightly before, but he didn’t notice.

Winny lets out a yawn and a stretch as she lifts herself from the counter. She rubs her face on the register before hopping off and making her way to the door. Winny paws at it three times before she stops and stares at the old-man, waiting for him to open it.

As soon as the old-man and Charlotte moved in, Winny appointed herself the shopkeeper, making a home for herself on the counter near the register. She must do a great job because the register is always full of new bills and change. The old-man doesn’t question it. He only ever takes out just enough cash for the groceries and tip. Before leaving, he puts on his newsie cap, a brown and very well-worn jacket, and then he makes his way out.

Sitting in the raft with Winny on his lap, with the coolness of the ocean breeze hitting his pale and wrinkled face, gives him a feeling of rejuvenation. The salt from the ocean water sits in his beard, giving the hairs a curl. Along the way, he sees the giant wooden stakes piercing out of the sea; Charlotte would say they were the fangs of a monster that dwelled beneath them.

When Charlotte’s condition worsened, she liked to go deep out to sea, so far out that they could no longer view their home or the town. When they got that far out, she would ask the old-man “Can you hold me?” He’d look into her emerald eyes, still full of life even when nearing the end, “I only ever stop because you ask,” wrapping her in his arms and blanket, each time holding her like it would be the last.

The old-man docks at the edge of the broken bridge. Thankfully for him, the ladder is still intact. As the years pass and the strength he once took so much pride in fades, he wonders if there will be a day sometime soon when he can no longer pull himself up the ladder. That day is not today, so he pulls himself up with Winny on his shoulder. Winny hops off onto her own adventure while he embarks on his way into town.

They made plans to leave the big city as soon as she got her diagnosis. The timing was oddly perfect because that same big city was about to implode on itself. Not exactly the greatest place to spend your final moments. While they were scouring for an escape, the matured man remembered a fishing town his father would take him to when he was a spry boy and hair wouldn’t be on his face for years.

They packed up the most important parts of their lives and left the rest as they drove to the small fishing town. They didn’t know what would await them, but they were okay as long as they were doing it together.

The town was far off into the coast and had a constant mist settled. Nothing about it had changed since he was a boy. Every building still had a sandy-wooden exterior. None of the buildings had become dilapidated from the years and storms that made their way. Charlotte made a comment that didn’t quite register with the matured man. “It reminds me of my childhood,” she said.

Throughout his stay, the mist has grown. With each passing month, it becomes thicker and heavier, so much so that even those with 20/20 vision cannot see further than twenty feet ahead. Which wouldn’t be much of a problem for the old-man, as he’s lived here for years at this point and should know where everything is, but the buildings in the town seem to shift each time he comes in for a visit. Older buildings are replaced with ones that have a fresh coat of paint, new ones are replaced with the old ones again. No longer are they over here, they’re over there. A labyrinth of a town that has a foothold in the past, present, and future. Remaining a forever constant.

Unlike any other building in the town, the grocery store has a foothold as far as location is concerned. The aesthetics and products sold, on the other hand, are a revolving door. At times, neon lights shine like a beacon to the old-man, and other times it just has a wooden sign with an arrow directed to the store. Sometimes they have cool ranch Doritos and sometimes they only have nacho. That’s always a disappointment for the old-man, he quite enjoys cool ranch.

He enters and is blinded by a luminescent light that coats everything. Meanwhile, a soft jazz tune plays over the radio. This process is always quick and efficient. He grabs some cans of soup, a jug of water, three apples, four oranges, and luckily for him, a bag of cool ranch Doritos. He leaves exact change on the counter and a couple of extra dollars for a tip.

With each step leaving the store and making his way through town, he can hear the shifting of it all. Each new piece and building block is being replaced and reimagined and just waiting for his return. He carefully levers down each one of his groceries and climbs down the ladder. Once he steps onto the small boat, he hears a gentle “meow” and Winny hops down into his arms.

As he makes his way back home, off in the distance beyond the mist and below the water, he can hear the calling siren song. It reminds him of Charlotte and puts him at ease on his journey back. Once again, he makes his way up the ladder, holding onto the bags in his hands and biting onto them with his teeth. His left-hand slips a bit, but his right holds on strong. He murmurs to himself, “Maybe next time,” as a vision of falling into the cold blue water, where only silence and peace may envelop him in the arms of Charlotte, runs through his mind. This thought puts him at ease.

Upon entering, Winny immediately returns to the counter and nuzzles up to the register. The old-man gives her a few pats and listens to her purr. “Good girl, good girl.” Then he returns to his home just in time to hear the ding of the coffee and the gentle thump. The old-man opens the door and finds no one waiting for him, just the morning paper at his feet, but off in the distance he can hear a jaunty whistle slowly disappear into the endless mist that surrounds him. A wrinkled smile forms on his face and he grabs the paper and closes the door behind him. Before he can read it, he dumps the hot water from the mugs and fills each one with the freshly brewed pot. His, as always, is black, and Charlotte’s has an inch of cream and sugar. Finally he sits, taking small sips, savoring each moment. He opens the paper and reads the events of the past, present, and future of a world that no longer matters to him.

Author Bio

Harrison Peck is a reader, traveler, coffee drinker, coffee maker, donut dunker extraordinaire, and most of all, a writer. He’s from SLC, UT. However, at the moment, he finds himself in the great state of Washington as a senior attending WSU. When the itch rises again, he’ll probably be back on the road, traveling out and about gaining inspiration for his stories.

Sacrilegious

I don’t know when they began looking at me like a god.

Maybe it was the night after I fed them my ideas on a warm, sugar coated spoon. Maybe it took a lot longer than I hoped. But I know I saw something shift, right there in their eyes after I led them out into the woods that night. I know they stopped looking at me as something purely human. I stood before them, white dress billowing in a bitter Autumn wind, moonlight casting me in soft light, my arms covered in dark, warm blood, the girl lying dead at my feet. Some may have walked into those woods that night and stumbled across that scene and shrieked in horror. They would have called me a monster, a murderer, a devil.

And they would have been right. But the people standing before me then had this light in their eyes. A light like the end of a very long tunnel. A light like I was the answer to all their prayers. Who was the one who coined that phrase, about one man’s god being another one’s devil?

When they got down on their knees and whispered my name like it was something hallowed I threw my head back and laughed.

Call it a cult, call me deranged, call them out of their fucking minds for believing I’m anything other than what I am. I call it something else.

A very long time ago I learned that we all worship something. I simply decided I wanted to be at the other end of that devotion. And maybe that makes me a villain, but hell, I’m hardly the first to play god.

—

Sunlight poured in through the windows of the cathedral. Heads were bowed, hands were clasped together, lips muttered silent prayers. The room was on its knees. Not me, though. My eyes were wide open and I was in complete awe that something so airy as faith could bring an entire room full of people to their knees. When my mother saw me in that state she pinched my arm and I quickly bowed my head with the rest of them. I kept my eyes open though, and a single, unforgiving thought made its way into my head and it still sits there to this day.

I want to be worshiped.

Some days I crept quietly into that old building long after everyone had gone. I would sit there until the sun fell low in the sky and caught the stained glass window, the colors all lit up from within like someone had set fire to them.

—

I remember the first time my mom ever told me about god. She sat delicately on the edge of my bed and she told me about a light in the darkness, about a sea torn down the middle, about suffering and sacrifices and saints, about a golden palace in the clouds, and fire and brimstone beneath the ground.

I think part of me always thought of it as another bedtime story, even though she spoke with such conviction, even though her words were desperate and heavy. I think part of me has always felt sorry for her. I was too young to name the pity for what it was, but it’s easy for me to fold my tongue around the truth now that I’m older.

The thing about people is they all need something to worship, something to pray to,
to devote themselves to in the name of something painfully more divine. And the truth is, most people want nothing more desperately than they want to believe that there is more than darkness at the end of it all.

The thing I realized for myself is on the flip side of that coin. We can get our hands on so little in this life, and we’ll never know if there’s more after this until it’s too late. The entirety of our existence is so miniscule in the face of history and eternity. We will touch the smallest, most insignificant sliver of everything that has been, and will be. If we want to be remembered we have to get our hands dirty. If we want to be revered we have to get them bloody.

I was 13 when my mother first took me to church with her. It was right after my father left us. I think she was looking for something else to carry her grief for her, to promise her that there will be more after this one shit life, to promise her that one day that hole in her chest will be filled in and forgotten. I remember her waking me unceremoniously on a Sunday morning and giving me a scratchy blue dress. We were 20 minutes late and we slid awkwardly into the very back row. I only remember a few things from that day – that light in the stained glass windows, that moment of the room being on its knees, and thinking god is on the right end of history. I remember thinking there’s something beautiful about damning a thing and then offering it the means to salvation – becoming both a poison and the antidote.

—

It took me a good long while but I eventually figured out how to pick out the kind of person who would follow me, who would look at me like I was a god. I was a little disappointed with how easy it was. First to get them close enough to whisper my ideas in their ears, and then to make them believe them.

I clasped their shaking hands in my own, and told them about cities in the clouds, about fire and brimstone and swarms of locusts blotting out the sun, about golden hills and sapphire seas. I simply wrote my name where god’s would be.

I promised them peace. I promised them pain.

And when they were filled with equal parts hope and dread, I whispered in their ears what they needed to do to earn one and escape the other. I fed them honey from the tips of my fingers. I made them bleed and kissed their wounds.

I told them that I loved them. And I meant it.

—

I led them out into the cold, their bare feet padding against the frozen ground. The moon was full in the dark sky when I drew them into the woods that night. I wore a thin white dress and my teeth chattered against the cold. I could hear the girl tearing clumsily into the trees ahead of us. I almost felt sorry for what was coming for her. Almost, but not enough to stop it when my entire life had been building to that very moment since that first Sunday morning.

With a single word my followers went tearing into the woods after her, the quiet night suddenly full of desperate howling and starved cries, carnal and beastly, and dreadfully, beautifully human. I could hear the girl racing through the trees, could imagine her own white gown shredded and covered in filth, could imagine her stumbling blindly beneath the canopy of evergreens as the cries get closer, and her own grow more wretched.

When they caught her she didn’t even scream. Her body was limp as they carried her to a sorry imitation of an altar I had them build that afternoon. I stood silently, holding a silver dagger tightly to my chest, drunk on the scene unfolding before me. All that matters, all that will ever matter is that they did this simply because I asked them to. The words I spit out next meant nothing, they were hollow, dead – words about innocence and sin and sacrifice. But the people nodded along and looked up at me with those bright eyes. The girl’s own eyes were dark as I lifted the dagger up, and the only thing she said before I plunged it into her chest was

Why?

They got down on their knees and I threw my head back and laughed.

I was still laughing when the sirens and lights ignited the clearing in sound and color and plumes of dust. I brought my bloodstained hands to my chest and laughed and laughed as my followers shrieked and scattered into the darkness beyond the trees, laughing as they raised their guns and fired, and I crumpled beside the girl’s still-warm body, laughing until my lungs were drowned in blood, and I drew my final, unsteady breath.

And I died, like everyone before me, and every one to follow.

Author Bio

Kaila is a senior at Cal State San Marcos, and she is studying literature and linguistics. She lives in Carlsbad with her dog and a couple dozen houseplants. Kaila loves horror movies and good books, and perpetually has a stack of novels to read next that never seems to grow shorter.