Category: Issue 3 (Spring 2024)

A Failed Frankenstein

A young widower nobleman had nothing left. His late wife was gone too young in a tragic accident. Months later, his sister found him in their marital home, having shot himself in the head. I brought her back, he’d written in his note, but she isn’t the same. She searched the home, trying to figure out how he brought back the dead, until she found the rotted cadaver in their bed. She soon realized he’d never succeeded. He’d laughed with, danced with, and slept with his wife’s corpse, so distraught with grief he was convinced his love was alive again.

My Mother’s Dresses

As I’ve gotten older, my memories of childhood have gotten more and more vague. Very few things from before I was twelve still stuck out to me. Those couple of memories, however, had stuck with me for a reason. I wasn’t sure if I’d call them bad memories, but they were far from good either. They had shaped me into who I was now, the good, the bad, and the things I still struggled to accept about myself.

The earliest thing I could remember was when me and Dina were five. We were twins, my mom’s lucky break at getting a boy and a girl on the first try, and we, like all children, had no concept of privacy. While our father was at work and our mother was busy in the kitchen, we let ourselves into our parents’ room, continuing past the California king and into the walk-in closet. 

We were towered over by the white, gray, and black of our parents’ clothes: my dad’s suits and my mom’s blouses. They were all proper and stiff, ironed meticulously by my mother every Saturday. My eyes barely registered them, and Dina’s didn’t either. Instead, Dina resolved to climb the safe in the corner and peek up at a shelf above her. I watched her reach out onto the shelf trying to use her short arms to grab things in her tiny hands. No matter how far she tried to reach though, she couldn’t grab anything, only managing to swat at a large box. I think she had been about to give up, when her hand hit the box for a final time, and it fell to the ground.

When it hit the floor, the lid popped off the box, and a pile of silky fabric spilled out, in an assortment of bright, shiny colors. I bent down and picked up something dark purple, silky smooth underneath my short fingertips. It was a dress, sleeveless and adorned in silver beading. Back then, I had no idea why I’d never seen my mother wear it before. It was gorgeous. I remember feeling as if I was encountering a new magic for the first time, deep within the confines of this tiny bedroom closet.

I don’t know how long I stood there, awe-struck, before Dina climbed down, joining me in examination of our new treasure. She grabbed another dress off the floor, holding it up like it was a trophy. Hers was navy blue, with capped sleeves and a belt. Not nearly as pretty as mine but she seemed to love it. She looked over at me, beaming with her gap-toothed smile, “Come on, Val! Let’s try them on!”

At first, I hesitated. These were our mom’s clothes, not ours. The one Dina was draping over her body, which would have been knee-length on our mom, was more than floor length on her. Then, I looked back at the dress I was holding. Something about it was too beautiful for human hands. Yet, here it was. Something so beautiful was not only real, but right in front of me. I could wear it. Without a further thought, I yanked it down and draped it over myself, feeling the softness of the fabric as I pulled it over my arms and head. It dragged along the floor, like I was a princess in a ballgown.

Me and Dina had been transformed. We were no longer normal children living in a suburban neighborhood. We were royalty, the son and daughter of a king and queen. Our house was our castle and the living room was our ballroom. And, we ran down the stairs to that ballroom and danced. We twirled around to the music of the CD that had been left in the player. Dina was giggling as her navy blue skirt and jet black hair flew around her. And I was giggling too, staring down at the swirling of my silky purple gown.

Then, the queen appeared from down the hall. We saw our mom smiling and laughing at us, watching us dance in her clothes, with her old CDs playing in the background. My mom rarely smiled like that. She was a much more serious monarch. A tiny smirk was unusual for her. But she had a full grin spread across her face, teeth and all.

When we finished, she came over to us, kneeled in front of Dina, and, in her soft, maternal whisper, said, “You look beautiful, Dina.” And, she was right. Dina was glowing. I smiled at her too, playing with the skirt of my dress and awaiting my own compliment. But, when my mother finally looked at me, she laughed, “You’re a silly boy, Val.”

That one sentence was the reason this event was etched into my memory. That was the first time in my life I had been confronted with a terrible fact: most people considered me to be weird. My mother thought I was being silly. I wasn’t though. I just wanted to look beautiful too.

I didn’t point it out to her, though. Instead, I turned the music back on and we kept dancing, this time with my mother watching us from the couch. As we danced, she would praise my sister and laugh at me. It made me want to cry. I wasn’t a princess. I was a fool.

Suddenly, I was just Val again. A five year old boy, dancing with his twin sister in the living room. But, unbeknownst to myself or my mother and sister, I’d already gotten a taste for it. Something in me had shifted. I wanted to feel like a princess again. And I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to achieve that.

Author Bio

René E. Wilde is the pseudonym of an aspiring writer currently attending Cal State San Marcos and studying Literature & Writing. They are a writer of primarily paranormal and coming-of-age fiction and currently attempting to publish their first novel. 

The Long Road

Every day, he passed a single letter barricaded by junk, toys, and parts on his rickety
table. Beefy daily passes, which included footsteps and belly taps, inched the letter closer to its fate—one last nudge.

It fell face up, demanding attention.
He stood frozen upon rediscovering it. The neatness of the handwriting reminded him too much of his wife.

It read:

To Dad Love,
Tommy.

Heartache rediscovered.

He tried to pick it up, but his body refused. To feel the ink splotches, to find recovery. Each step felt like a mile until it rested between his fingertips.

He burned it.

Author Bio

Nicholas Nevarez (He/Him) is an undergrad in literature and writing at CSUSM. He enjoys writing short pieces of fiction and poetry and hopes to become a creative writing professor in the future.