The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

Short fantasy/fiction

E.K. Anderson

Today we wait for the Ivory Ship. It will dock on the coast, on the pier of Al’ Abyad in Algin.

We will board it.

I will walk along with my Sisters upon the pier, customarily—hand in hand —-towards the sea. Then, we will stand upon the Threshing Pier, for seven days until the Merchant of Silk arrives. 

We will enter the Ship, and it will ascend toward the heaven A’bai, for that is the will of Al’ Abyad. 

I am Saia, and I long for this day.

Today, our Men attend to Us. They affix lapis lazuli to our dresses. They powder diamond to our feet. Ruby to our foreheads.

We are Three Sisters in all. Bound in Faith by the state of our medical marvels.

We are healers. Sooth-seers. Prophetesses.

Not your mythical healers, who rejuvenate through shamanistic panaceas. No, we can see Spirit and unravel the Malady, as one would a scroll. 

We do not dissect. We do not invade. We know.

And with the movement of our minds we eliminate Plague. We are the Seven.

We are bred elite —nigh perfection. Enough to be more than enough.

In the golden dome we stand upon separate dais, in our fathers Hall. Platforms built of gold, all of us standing within the Sky lit hall. Gold leaf wreathes our diadems. 

The seamstresses and tailors and the weavers on their looms splay sun-riven strings.

Brought from the womb of earthen sinews.

The people give tithes at the offertory. Our Ladies in waiting dollop our cheeks and foreheads with white rose petals. One by one, the Merchants take their offerings; one by one they petition for us in prayer. Our men caress our feet.

And the citizens of my Father’s city of Al’Abyad come to us for healing.

The merchants come first, then the scribes, and the governors, but lastly it is the artists: the craftsmen, and the inventors. They are the last with Ailment.

The last was a woman, thin and ravaged by age and time hobbled in pain with her cane. 

She approaches the Dais.

She is known as a Mother. She unveils her cloak, and drops it on the ground.

Shiva.

She spreads her as four arms out. The hide of the old woman sheathes off. 

Four hands spread from her torso. They crest above her head, where a lotus flower manifests.

She closes her eyes, and the petals light aflame.

She lights a fire with her breath in the center of the hall. The cobblestone, and marble melt from the lava that flows from her mouth.

Tongues of flame lick our feet at the bottom of the Dais. None of the Sisters move.

Shiva walks through the flame.

Her long, sharp tongue extends from wide jowls, and sharp teeth. She throws the skin of the old woman into the fire. 

We do not move.

“A trial,” Shiva says.

She constructs an altar from the cobblestone, erecting it in front of the Dais. She plucks her sharp teeth from her mouth.

Blood oozes from her gums. Her nails extend from her fingertips, like talons and the razor-like extensions prick out like thorns. 

Our silver blood pools at the base of the Dais, on to her altar. 

She tastes the blood.

We do not move.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Shiva says.

She speaks to the heaven above the throne room.

“They are worthy!”

Then, in a plume of smoke, she disappears.

*

The Second mother arrives. She wears the livery and armor of millions. Electric, blue sequins line her hips. Girded with a leather belt, there is lightning in her eyes.

“Elera,” Says she. 

Athena gazes at my sister.

‘What fate do you choose?”

From her sheath she raises a silver sword gilded in lightning.

“What do you choose? Olympus, or the Ivory Ship?

“I choose,” Elera says, “The Ivory Ship.”

“Very well,” Athena says.

She bears the blade at Elera’s throat. The Blade electric, touches side of her throat. The jugular.

“Again, Elera, what do you choose?” She paused. “Do you choose us? Do you choose war?”

“No,” Elera says. “I choose the Ivory Ship!”

“So be it,” Athena says.

Athena raises her blade. The sword touches the larynx.

The strike is swift. Within the blink of an eye, I see it swipe, as if wrought of light itself. I see the motion in slow motion, the trail of electricity passing.

Then when in contact, the blade shatters: Sprinkling into a myriad of diamond pieces.

Athena looks at the sword.

“You passed,” she says. “You are worthy of Fatehood. Do not disappoint your father.”

She tosses the Blade aside, with nonchalance and rejoins her legion on the other side of the Pantheon.

The portal closes.

It is now my turn. I can only think of the Ivory Ship. 

I close my eyes, and imagine.

What more can I say of it, besides the lore that surrounds it?

What I can say, is that the Ivory ship does not come to Algin often. 

For one it is pearl-white ship: the last of the missionary starships that have left from Algin. 

A vessel untarnished by weathering, none know of the Builders – except the Last. 

I await my test.

For a moment there is a pause. We do not see what is to be but the greatness of my father’s hall.

A cat prances in the corner of my eye. Then a second. More cats coalesce about my vision. 

Then the grass of open pasture bloomed from outside of my periphery. Fields of gold, the likes of which I had never seen erupted in spectra. 

Suns and moons rose, vallies dipped and gullied; light waxed and waned. Arrays, and matrices speckled and spiraled.

I saw my mother, Freya then. Her porcelain face amidst a reddened mane of hair. Lithe legs prancing amongst bunnies, and daffodils, and lilacs.

First will come the coronation, said she. The shadow of a man followed her.

She collected a wreath of flowers. The stems she carefully tied into a crown.

This she placed upon my head.

I shuttered.

He awaits you, my Mother says.

A man: tall, broad, bearded and handsome walks towards me. He wears the markings of a war hero: hide of bear, scars of scythes, brandings of fire.

His hair is read.

Cuchulain.

It is time to meet him, my Mother says.

I look down and see I am dressed in a white dress.

As The Greater Luminary descends on the Plains, my heart sinks with it. 

I do not eat the offerings, I do not offer any more blessings. The Oracle descends down from the steps,  On High, and passes Us —inspects Us. 

“Stand tall,” he says to me. 

“Smile. You are a child of Al’ Abyad. You were bought at a High price.”

He smiles.

“I will make you my wife.”

He utters the same words to my Sisters. 

Then, I see my sisters taken in by one of the Courtiers. The First descending from Her dais. The Second taken into his dwelling, a harem beset with gold, and lapis lazuli. 

But I know it is all, but Illusion.

This is an illusion, I say. A farce!

Then my sisters are sacrificed one by one. They lie upon Odin’s statue.

Their silver blood flows pours from the lips of the statue. 

The brazen image gazes foremost, hauntingly.

It catches in the receptories first, conduces down the bronze tubes into the vats below the palace, where the People may drink our blood to restore themselves. 

With a chalice Our Father captures the last trickle of  torrent from the lips of the Venusian statue.

I see my father. He is built of Time.

He drinks the “water,” and before my eyes his countenance  changes. His complexion reddens, his flesh smoothens. The frost of white from his cataracts disappears, and he resumes his full stature.

He is now a young man.

Sunset rosy with a ship that comes once a century on the Day of Michael of the Seventh Lunar Year.

The children will be sacrificed in your Honour.

They will kill us, as sacrifice.

No, I say. 

The proprietors must make sure that the Kindred, being the ones in royal matrimony are in utmost form for this train housing the Faerie.

A woman must leave her family in forsaking this charge of not desiring to be a Christened Goddess. 

In so doing she allows herself to wear thin and wan – until the sunset of the trains arrival.

She does not venture out, even to see the sunlight on the plain of Mur, where stand the threshing grounds

It takes her away to the land of Faerie

Upon the endless plain, the Children of Ishtar stand.

Today I was selected for the Threshing. is the Festival of our patron goddess Ishtar. 

I am the President’s daughter. And I was the first selected for sacrifice. 

My attendants dapper me with

My people, the Kin of the north prepare for the coming of the vessel that will take them 

One day it will take Us all away, to the land of the Knowing.

But that time is not now. 

Premise the preponderance for violence in us all.

We afix diadems to Her crown, loop the golden ringlets about her ears, and smear blood to her lips.

The blood is our own, from all us who attend to Her – the Goddess Incarnate, the Golden Image of Ishtar.

The girl—for she is just sixteen—who stands upon the dais, gazes foremost 

We desire her to be as our Oenultimate, the standard of our people. From the deeply hearted wish of every man comes forth the Deity. 

She is beautiful – the Woman with Gold Skin. She is adorned.

There are several of us who envy her beauty. There are several of us who wish to kill her, but that is not for the Men to decide.

Soon it will happen, this killing but we know not which will do it.

There is a preponderance for violence is within us all beneath the surface. It lies strongest within the seemingly meekest of men – that Our pride is hidden in amongst the most humble.

Amass the groupthinknof society and assimilate it in a more tangible form determinant upon race creed or socio-economic splendor.

But the illusion fades. It disdopates into mist, and my mother’s face turns cold.

No I say. I do not want it. I await boarding the Ivory Ship. 

The majesty of the wedding disappears, and my father smiles before he disappears

Cuchulain falls to his knees. He is bound by ropes and fetters. He looks at me with malace.

You. You are the daughters of the Fates.

My mother Freya decomposes. Her dust returning to the plains and pastures. Back again, back again to the soil, and north of the orchids.

That is the final test.

On the crescent of the horizon, I see the whitest of ship sail in the sky. It gleams on the starboard side of silver, and elder etchings. It is not manned, but rather – like the Flying Dutchman – carrens her golden sails in the wind.

It stops at port in Algin.

And then, us Fates, three sisters board the Ivory Ship.

By Eric-Anderson Momou

The growth of mangos heralds the end of the Ivorian rainy season. As the fruitage buds, it is a call to action for the villagers. Awake, they rouse each other from their slumber and rejoice for the new season. Men enter talks of crop and business. Between swallows of palm nut stew and mashed plantains, they chastise their children, who run barefoot. Women wear boubous, and fashion their linens in a back sling, to carry their infants. Under porticos they plant okra and cassava. After it has been laid out to dry, they grind it with mortar and pestle, milling out the impurities so that they might cook for the men. Among the denizens of the village are the sagacious griots. Slowly, the villagers forget their tales. There were many, but they dwindle now, as do their orators.  

I’d met one such man, whom the villagers called Zulan.

Zulan told stories. He recited lessons verbatim, the way his father told him, and he taught them truthfully. Last year, a band of surveyors for the annual census congregated around him in his brick house. Though the visitors listened to the interpreter, their eyes watched Zulan. Even beyond the language barrier of his native Baule, he could see that his words had touched them.

The satisfaction this brought him, almost erased his worry. His mind fixated on the gossip that spread to the surrounding villages. That year, Zulan’s wife divorced him and his in-laws fought for assets and money. His daughter had flown to Europe, studying journalism, and she called sparingly.

Meanwhile talk grew restless. He heard the slander in the marketplace, or on the road as he walked to the mosque. He even heard it in hushed undertones from his neighbors. As much as he hated the rumors, he understood why they were spoken, for he was the last griot. 

Finally, he addressed his contemporaries. This is what he told them:

“I’m going to take a trip. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Come along if you’d like.” 

His ex-wife declined. She called him crazy. His daughter refused also. Some of his longtime childhood friends–the ones he played pilolo with– pitied him, citing that he’d acquired an early bought of senility. But Zulan was nearly fifty, and alzheimers, though it was hereditary, had not yet set in. 

“Then I’ll go by myself,” Zulan said.

“And where will you go to, fool?” said his ex-wife.

To this Zulan had little response, but a long winded sigh. “To Mali,” he said, “To see the Niger.”

He had planned for three weeks, setting up the necessary accommodations. He sold cassava to fund his expedition. He also sold hibiscus tea, and many of his own personal articles of clothing, including several wooden, animist idols. 

This was his year, and he’d make the most of it. Once, he wanted to visit America, and hike through the Adirondacks. He’d read about the cricket team in the West Indies, and dreamt of competing there as a young man. Now, rumination had sent him on a separate path; not an ascension to another continent but to Mali where he was born.

He started his journey in Abidjan. For a couple francs, the double decker bus ran through the rural townships of Yamoussoukro. By foot, He descended across the border into Mali. He ate fish and attieke from his pack, and rationed some so that he could sell the rest on the road.  He walked further north still into Bamako. There the Niger river ran ruddy and black like the entrails of some animal. 

Zulan trudged through the plain. Dust skimmed the sun-cracked earth, and the glare of sun reflected off the sheen, like a prism. Stony cliffs outlined the western slopes, such that broad shadows beckoned him. At the foothills, the city of Bamako reserved its prisonon, a rite of passage. The city clutched the waking life, and made the green world a facsimile: an unnatural one. He had no intent of visiting it. 

Despite his fatigue h e wouldn’t die of exhaustion, or the heat. He knew that his power was not his own.

*

Zulan found the dog in a sewer at the edge of the city. Its paw had been cinched between the concrete rubble and rivets. Mange accumulated under its fur, and its muzzle swelled.

“Stay there.” He told the dog. The dog whimpered, but it showed no sign of agitation. Zulan wedged his hand in the crack of the crag, and dislodged the debri. Then the dog’s paw came out.

“Now you’re free. Go.” But the dog stayed. Whether it was out of predatory instinct or stubbornness, he did not know. 

He’d named the dog Whisky, after an old habit. Whiskey was a hybrid: the result of a husky and some undomesticated wild dog. He’d heard of those tame foxes; the silver ones sold from out of Russian genetics institutes. Long ago, he bred dogs for a living, but among all the thoroughbreds he’d never observed a wild dog even half as tame.

For all he was worth, the dog kept following him. He trotted a few paces behind, its tongue lapping the humid air, saliva drizzling onto the arid sand. It would not leave his side.  At noon, when Zulan stopped to rest under the shade of a baobab the dog did also.

“A loyal companion, yes” said the man to the dog. “Go now. See that your hunt is good.” The dog seemed to perceive his intent in this, and drew his long tongue into his mouth. It cocked its head thoughtfully, then trotted off.

Zulan rested. He dreamt of many things, though he did not recall them upon awakening. When he rose, the night was brisk again and the stars shone upon their heavenly dais. The plain croaked with life. It teemed now, as it did when he was a boy–before the land development and the plotters. Now he felt the whisk of wind. He could grasp the seedheads of wild grass. This ebb and flow, Zulan liked. 

Later in the night, the dog returned. In its jaws was a pheasant. He dropped the game at his feet, and fell asleep. 

At dawn, Zulan woke, but the dog was gone.That’s when he saw the place of his birth, in full sunlight. Dappled flecks of gold floated upon the Niger. He stoked a fire to cook the pheasant that the dog had left for him; he seasoned it with mustard from the field.. By midday he had reached the bank. That was where he met the boy. He weaved baobab bark, and palm leaves into a sort of dirigible. It was bound by strips cut from leather, and hemp. Quart water jugs floated like buoys on either side of it, giving the construct buoyancy. 

“Boy,” he called. “What is your name?”

The boy arranged the sticks, parallel to each other like yarn strung from a loom. Then, he snapped them one after the other, and tossed them into the river. Still, the boy did not respond, and this goaded him.

“Who taught you? When an elder speaks, you respond.”

“Stick. That is my name.”

“I am Zulan. I am a foreigner in your land.”

“So you ask for hospitality?” The boy grinned. 

“Yes.”

“I have no house. I nap under the shade of baobabs. For food, I fish when there are any.”

“If you have nothing to offer, then I’ll bid you luck.”

“That is all I’ll need.”

“I have another request,” said Zulan. He bridled his tongue. 

“And what is that?” said the boy. 

“To ride in your boat so that I may cross the river.”

This confounded the boy, and he shook his head. “This side is the same as that one,” said the boy, “There is no difference.”

“This does not convince me. Please, grant me this request.”

“And do you have payment?”

This angered the elder. He had only twenty francs, and the hibiscus waned. “I don’t.”

The boy crossed his arms. “Then I cannot do you the service.”

At this Zulan stood dumbfoundedly on the bank. He had nothing, but himself to give. 

“And if I tell you a story?” said Zulan. 

“I do not listen to the ravings of old men,” the boy said. He threw another stick into the water. 

“Today you will.” Zulan told the boy. He recounted how he’d ridden on the bus from Ivory Coast, and peddled, and walked a cramped roadway. He spoke about his wife, and the surveyors. He spoke of the murmurers, and his decision in coming here.

“The village of my birth is across the river.”

“The story is good, but I will still charge you a discounted toll.”

The boy took silver franc coins, from his pouch, and touched them to Zulan’s lips. He placed them under his tongue. 

“Now you must pay the ultimate price,” said the boy. He grinned like a fiend, and the old man did not like it.

“And what may that be?”

“Your soul.”

“There. You have paid the fare. Now you may enter my boat.”

Along the shore, the riptide lulled them. He rowed the oar more vigorously now. But, before Zulan could complain, it shook them viciously. Meanwhile, the boy kept his balance like a gondolier. 

A whirlpool swirled. To Zulan’s surprise Stick maneuvered the boat into it. The boat capsized, and he plunged in. Between gasps of air, Zulan saw the boy, standing on the water. 

Underwater, he lost track of his belongings. He spat out the francs the boy had placed in his mouth. All about him the water of the Niger grew murkier. He saw light struggling through a pitch expanse, and felt the clutch of seaweed at his ankles. 

At the surface, hippos sunbathed on the shore, gaping their mouths, yawning. A snake writhed in the reeds. 

Then the water stilled. He heard nothing, and saw nothing. Zulan heard a voice. It was the boy’s. The language was Baule.

He found the boy on the opposite shore, waiting.

“I have seen all there is to see, and it is a great sight. But I really must go back home.”

“For what, old man?” said the boy. “You told me of your plight, and it is foolish to return back upon your path. What lies ahead of you is greater than what came. Before”

“Not there. Where I was born.” 

“Why do you want to go back to the place of your birth?”

 Zulan thought about this. He longed to taste the fried plantains of his youth, and climb the mango trees again. He wished to tread the same fertile ground that his father had as he herded livestock, and to hear the call of the muezzin in the courtyard. 

“Because it is where I am from and that is where I am going.”

The storyteller waded through the water. He heard the shrill cries of crickets, and the whip of wind in his ears. He witnessed the houses, made of sod and mud brick and cinder block.

He found the boy standing alongside a mango tree. Then he smiled.

This is what the boy told him: 

“I am the dog, and the wife, and the mango groves. I am Stick. But above all else I am the Niger; the place of your birth. What the river takes, it deposits into the Sea. You have lived beyond it, so that you may tell your story to those who continue living.”

This, the storyteller hadn’t known, but he smiled for the thought was comforting. 

Zulan plucked the ripest fruit from the lowest branch, a mango. He bit into the soft rind, into the flesh of it, and the juice dripped down his chin.

His wrinkled skin receded, and his stature grew. Zulan became young again. 

The dog loped at his side.

*

Zulan woke amidst his friends, in the arms of his wife. When Zulan told me his story he grinned. He told his friends what had happened, but they all laughed.

“They told me they were such foolish tales,” Zulan told me. “ I agreed with them–that the story was pure dribble, and the result of malaria fever. ” 

“But secretly,” Zulan said, “I believe in such a wondrous place, and I think that I shall return.”

-E.K. Anderson 

Genre: Milwaukee Noir/ a comedy

A short story by E.K. Anderson

Word Count: 2001

 “Slaughter”

by E.K. Anderson

April 1

Hun,

Do you remember the night we met off Brady Street? I was passed out on someone’s lawn, wearing a loincloth and a ushanka. The temperature was thirty, I think —and it was in the middle of November. 

This was before the AA meetings. 

If you’ve repressed the memory, I apologize for reminding you, but as a part of the Program, I’m supposed to write people letters. I suppose this is a way to apologize, and say thank you for helping me walk home that night. You were the first person I thought of who I owed an explanation to.

I was grateful for the warmth of the ushanka that night. As for the loincloth— that was part of the hazing. I’ll get to that.  I don’t remember where I’d gotten it from.

Anyway, this is what happened. It’s a cringeworthy tale, but worth telling.

*

We were instructed to meet at the parking lot at noon off Fordem Avenue, in the alleyway behind the Pizza Joint. Cooper and I had been given the notifications in person, from a Scout, like some good old fashioned rumble. 

The Omega Alphas had been inducting us two by two. As the Main Man put it, they were keeping us “ripe and fit as masculine specimens for biological, and dogmatic reproduction.” 

Adonis Completis. Whatever that means.

I’d never been in a street fight, less any kind of hustle before, and the nerves were getting to me. I’d been dubbed the Ferret in high school, and my gaunt physique showed it. 

I’d been instructed to wear a loincloth, and a ushanka — or else— by the Head Honcho, and I did it, because I was scared, Kate. 

To atone for this fear, Cooper and I’d studied up on basic Krav Maga, and watched Rhonda Rousey (for Judo lessons). We watched the World of WWE for all of Macho Man’s stints, and fashioned our own renditions of finishing moves. The moves were difficult to replicate, but we managed to learn a couple choke holds from Rick Flair, and some dropkicks from The Karate Kid. As an added boost, I’d brought a flask of Cooper’s homemade, grape juice-moonshine. 

The Omega Alphas had been hazing us, pitting us freshman against each other for a while, until Cooper spoke up. But that didn’t stop the threats. In fact, it exacerbated them. We just flared hotter on their radar, as two punk stoners deserving of exemplary treatment. 

“How do you beat a bully?” Cooper looked over at me from the sidewalk. His greasy, shoulder-length hair flowed violently in the autumnal draft. In his oversized Metallica shirt, he looked like Kirk Hammet’s obese cousin. The biker gang reject. 

Cooper adjusted his bifocals.

“I really don’t know,” I said. I never thought I’d ever meet any in college. 

“By meeting him on his own turf. That’s how.” He led until we reached the alleyway, then he stopped, and sniffed the air.

 “How are you feeling, Theo?”

“Queasy,” I said.

“Ya. Me too. We are about to get messed up, man. But don’t let that scare you. They’ll smell that fear. Stay strong, brother.” We weren’t brothers of course —roommates, actually —but the friendly sentiment did well to suspend my carnal fear. 

Just then, two guys popped out from behind the rear door of the Pizza Joint restaurant. Two more came from behind the dumpsters. 

I pulled down the ears of my lucky trapper hat, the ushanka, and rolled up the sleeves of my plaid sweater. 

“I’m just gonna slaughter ‘em,” Cooper said. “Pound them into oblivion if I can help it.”

“Two against four?” I choked. “In what universe was this even remotely fair?”

“Nope, we’ve got five.” The Main Man — that was the name he chose for himself— led them all. He looked like some well-to-do felon, who wore a black dress shirt and aviator glasses. He was stout: a full foot under Cooper’s six. He took off his cap.The shaved, oiled white head shined in the sunlight, and the glare almost blinded us. 

Douche Supreme, Cooper called him. 

“Might as well consider it slaughter.”

“I wish we didn’t have to.” I said

“Aggress or egress. That’s the name of the game, brother. 

“Avante garde!” He cried. “Bring it on, bitch,” Cooper said. He poured the grape-juice moonshine on the ground, as a libation. 

Damnit. 

“Call me, Darryl,” said the Main Man. He stepped over a concrete parking chock with ease. His black, well oiled pointy shoes gleamed in the afternoon light.

“Boys. Take it easy. I don’t want to scuff these here Winklepickers.” The Main Man smiled. He snapped his fingers, and the posse encircled us. I searched the mob. At no point, or angle were we without eyes. His boys were like Kim Jung Un’s security team, always searching —looking for structural insufficiencies.

They crept slowly forward as the Main Man encircled us, like a scene from a Scorsese flic. 

“Come on guys. We don’t mean you no harm. Honest.” Darryl said. He extended his arms, almost platonically. Almost endearingly.

“We don’t want your hugs,” Cooper said. “Why don’t you tell us the real reason you invited us to this brawl. Tell us this all about proving your ego. This is a dick contest ain’t it?”

I wanted to tell Cooper to shut the hell up. I wanted to tell him that the world of the Omega Alphas was all a goddamn, solid sham and that the shame of all it was upon us. I wanted to yell and hit and spit all over the establishment that represented the Omega Alphas, but despite every one of my inner denunciations I couldn’t muster the voice, couldn’t muster the inclination. I was one of those people, whose anger took a long time to rear its head, but when it did, I was a force of nature. And it was this cyclone, that even Cooper feared. 

“No,” Darryl said, “It’s not a dick contest.” He walked forward. “We’re not trying to ruffle you up.”

He pulled a crowbar from the rear pocket of his cardigan pants, and lifted it to Cooper’s face. “We’re just going to teach ya.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Cooper spat.

Darryl walked over to me. He slapped the flappy ears of my trapper hat. 

“Hey there, Weasel. Good job for wearing proper attire.”

“You shouldn’t have touched his ushanka.”Darryl paced back to Cooper. 

“His what now?”

I almost pissed myself.

“I said, you shouldn’t have—“

The crowbar swung and I heard the crack. Cooper’s glasses fell off his face, tumbled to the pavement. He didn’t dare pick it up. 

“His ushanka?” Cooper’s words trailed slowly out, like a squeaky toy. 

“And what the hell is a ushanka?”

“I’m not gonna explain that.”

“Fair,” Darryl said, pacing. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “We just want to heighten the pace of natural selection. See who’s fittest to join our club. Our Frat Tribe. The Omega Alphas.” The Main Man tossed the crowbar in the air, and caught it. 

Cooper flinched. 

“So, then are you a pussy, or a Centurion?” The Main Man asked. He raised the crowbar.

“C-Centurion,” Cooper said. The Omega’s laughed. 

“H-Hiyah!” I stammered. The words exited far sooner than I’d meant to, inspirited in part by the moonshine, and my own fight response. I moved slowly into a ninja stance.

The awkward silence came.

Darryl looked at me long and hard at me, until my own reflection in his glasses made me feel uneasy. He grinned. 

“Now this guy,” said Darryl the Main Man, “Is a real Centurion. He’ll get feral if you let him. Isn’t that right, Flappy?”

 I didn’t say a thing. 

“Your Animal man here doesn’t know how to answer a question, Coop,” said the Main Man. 

Darry sized me up. “All fight. No brawn.”

“Isn’t that right?” He struck the ear of my ushanka. “Goof!”

I don’t remember slapping Darryl. I remember my hand moving of its own accord, and his buggy aviators flying off his fat face. When I bopped him, the fight began.

Ding!

The rest of the Omega’s swarmed. 

To Valhalla. 

I took a swing at the first guy. 

He punched me first. 

I tried drop kicking. 

It failed, and I crumbled. 

“Ow, goddamn it.”  

I staggered back, bracing myself against a bike rack. I felt like a boxer getting slammed up against the ropes. Then the other guys, the Cavalry, swamped Cooper and the best I could do was to try and pry each of them off from him. Each henchmen served a purpose I thought. Like Igor from Young Frankenstein. If I could get them to re-calibrate their Hive mind, maybe they’d let him live.

I tried drop-kicking the final one, but that too failed. 

Cooper swung at one of the Fantastic Four. Then at me. But I ducked. 

Then, Cooper and another guy accidentally punched each other at the same time. With a glorious spurt of blood, they both collapsed, to the ground. 

When they came to, Cooper’s nose was a mess — smushed upon itself like some deflated, balloon — mushed like a raspberry, with snot and juice spilling out all over onto the pavement. He spat out a tooth. 

He crawled on all fours, looking for his shattered glasses.

The other guy was knocked the fuck out. 

“Theo.” Cooper reached a hand out. 

I saw him from behind the bike rack, as I, myself, was getting pummeled. The least I could do was sequester myself from the blows of the big guys, in a tuck and roll fashion that felt instinctual.

Then, when the bastards got the best of him, he crumpled onto the ground again, knees to his chest. 

We’d done good thus far, taking two out of the five. But it wasn’t enough. The Omega Alpha’s were gaining territory, again. 

“Now, it’s time, Son.” Darryl shoved a spur in my side. “We’ll call it the coup de grace.” He cocked his head, and beckoned towards Cooper.

“Come on over here, Judas!”

Cooper could hardly stand. 

“Lift him up then,” Darryl said, and his two remnant henchmen put Cooper on his two feet. “You called yourself a Centurion did you?”

Darryl lifted his crowbar. 

“Well if you’re a real Centurion, you’d uphold that honor, soldier.”

 “Sorry, Theo.”

With a slam, Darryl hit Cooper’s ribcage. I heard a crack.

It was his ribs, and his glasses. 

“Oops,” Darryl said. “Looks like I stumbled on your glasses, Mink.”

“I’ll be needing myself a new pair.”

Darryl rolled up his sleeves. I heard a snap, as he struck Darryl again in the ribcage.

“It’s time to prove yourself, boy.” 

He handed Cooper the crowbar. “Coup de grace,” he said.

Cooper leaned in and whispered. “It won’t hurt. We’ll pull a finisher. Just like on WWE.”

Cooper raised the crowbar. He swung at Darryl.

“I’m Rick Flair, bitch.”

In what I can describe as a jolt of punkish adrenaline, Cooper tackled Darryl. And finally my drop-kick hit more than air. I still got punched, but I held my ground. 

I looked over at Cooper. He kept punching. I swear he hit concrete a couple of times. But that didn’t phase Cooper, much. Darryl looked off than Cooper was. 

“Toxic Masculinis! Vulgaris. Stupid frat.”

Darryl was out cold. His band of Igors fled the Coop.

Then with a “This is Sparta” reference, I calmed him down. 

“Hey, Jude. You can stop now.”

Darryl was out for the count. 

“We won.”

He took the crowbar and threw it over the rooftop of the Pizza Joint. I heard a clang, and then shattered glass.

We hobbled from off of Fordem Avenue, away from the alleyway. We’d popped ourselves a few cold ones, because the nerds had won. 

*

Anyway, hun that’s how I met you. We’d finished the rumble, and after we each took a swig from the flask of grape-juice moonshine, I don’t much remember what happened after that. But I do remember meeting you.

I was on my back sleeping on someone’s lawn. The time was 2 a.m.

You kicked me in between the ribs. It wasn’t a hard kick. 

You were wearing Uggs.

-From your Ex, Theo

Genre: Gothic horror

E.K. Anderson

We bought the farmhouse property for a bargain. It was away from the City, in Horus. On account of its space, the place was forty acres square, with casual hills that lulled us. Paradisaic trails fell along jagged limestone precipices, tussled in sweet pine forest. West, the pastures stopped their gallup into abrupt plain. This here, gullied, into the vale over field where the meadow grass sprawled beyond the pines.

The real jewel was the barn, as it stood whitewashed and glimmering, an effulgence in the sun. I’d grown up on a dairy farm, all through high school, and the place struck me with a memorial chord. It was room enough for the dog, and a prospective kid, so on impulse I sealed the deal with the realtor. 

In the beginning, my wife, Nancy, said no. She didn’t care for the country–being from the Cities–but the bad timing in between jobs, and her depression put me in between a rock and a hard place to find a reasonable residence. Besides, she could start writing again–and this abated the frequent fits of anger. Now, was as good as any to recuperate, which my wife so called, “a self-imposed rest cure.”

“We’re revived naturalists,” she said, “Pocketed away like hermits, in the Muir woods.” “We’ll make it work,” I said. “You’ll see.” I smiled, a sheepish grin, the same one I gave her before I’d proposed. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she compromised. I’d done so too with my new job, lessening my wages from the college to teach high school. I’d even painfully accepted the dog, as an addition to which I was allergic.

 It hadn’t occurred to me the magnitude of work that a country house would procure: in renovations, and subsequent upkeep. Fortunately, the season was early spring when we’d moved in, and the issue of firewood, could be postponed for a while. I’d found a prospective seller of it in bulk, though his quantity waned–and I needed to settle upon a second solution.

Among the first of my naive endeavors was the purchase of an axe; to cut the tree in back. I’d bought the thing at an antique shop in town. The owner had been meaning to get rid of the omen, saying until it’s presence he’d been making a moderate living. He told me that it was his nightly practice to move it on upper shelf behind the counter. On more than one occasion, he said, it’d manifest itself upon his chair, or within the display cabinet. The last morning he’d discovered it dangling by gossamer above his head, like the Sword of Dionysus. I regarded these tales with little more than humor.

*

One afternoon in April, I went out into the cold and wet after a week’s worth of rain. The ground was still sodden, but the wood dry. I’d been meaning to cut down the tree with the new axe.

I’d assumed it was an oak by the formation and bark, and through my relative observation of the others, this one, though, stood more steadfast, brazen enough in girth so that it imposed upon its contemporaries for light. Its bark was a composite, like twisting striatum so. And I could tell it was very old.

I’d heard a high pitched sound, like a whippoorwill whistle from down the road.

An old man walked down the path, and his dog came with him. The wolfhound looked as aged as his owner with flecks of gray in its fur. It’s tongue rolled out lazily, and it grinned as it paced alongside its companion.

I’d recognized the two. The old man was our neighbor from a mile down our place. I’d found it funny that they commuted by foot for such a distance, considering both their ages. 

“What do you think you’re doing, ye langer?”

 The voice was low and gruff, like a growl with an Irish accent. Axe in hand, I hesitated. Had I caught that correctly? I hadn’t noticed the old man’s lips move as he spoke. 

“What did you call me?” I was unfamiliar with the term, but it sounded insulting. 

“You heard me.” Then, I froze. My suspicion was justified in believing the voice did not come from the old man, but the dog.

“Yeah I can talk. Fuck you.”

The old man grinned. “Quiet, Failinis! He’s new at this. It would befit you to be cordial every once in a while.

The man looked back at me.

“I’m Lugh,” he said.

The dog, growled. 

“What are you doing, Lad? He’s got a point, you know.”

I stood perplexed. I thought the action was obvious. 

“I’m cutting down this tree.”

The old man clicked his tongue, and grinned a toothless smile. “And why are you cutting it down?”

“Because, he’s an idiot,” said Failinis. 

The old man glared, and the dog cowered. “Stop insulting him.”

“I’m cutting the tree for wood,” I said. “So we can keep warm come winter.”

“A respectable cause, but we can’t let you do that, Lad.” He glowered at me, like he’d done to his hound. “Besides, there are other trees.” He beckoned towards the forest.

“If it’s such a good cause, why can’t I? It’s my tree, in my backyard, on my land.” I set the axe down.

The man smiled again. “Because it’s unethical as you people call it. Is that a challenge?”

“Yes,” I said asserting myself. “It is.” 

“Well, from the looks of you, you’ve got Irish blood. So I don’t doubt your fury for a minute. Because you’re a son o’ mine I’ll treat you better than the others.

 “This–here–tree, is not your tree. It is mine. It was planted a long time ago, before your bastard conception, or your Pap’s birth, before your grandmother was fucked by that Irish sailor.”

“This, oak?”

“He doesn’t even know what kind of tree it is!” yipped Failinis. 

“This yew! I transported it here from over the great drink when it was a sapling, from a country not unlike  your own. Long before the lawmakers bickered, the proprietors and their bullshit regulations, and the property managers partitioned the allotments.” 

“I didn’t know that,” I said, my countenance softening. However, the story had quite a lot of holes; and that put Lugh’s age as a centenarian into question. “Well, I’m sorry but it doesn’t change the fact that the tree remains on my property, and as such I have the right to cut it.”

“It’s just a warning, son. But if you cut it, you’ll end up with a lot more than you bargained for. And I’d be the one to tell you.”

I’d resolved to cut another tree that day, only for the sake of Lugh’s sentiment. When the trees dwindled, I’d reconsider it. But that wouldn’t be for a long time. 

*

My wife had been happiest that summer; her novel was almost complete. I’d started working at a community college again, and felt alive. 

That summer, she got pregnant with our son. 

In bed, I’d felt her stomach for kicking. “Honey,” she said.

“What,” I said. I stroked her hair, the swirls of red. I noticed a gray strand, supposed stress to be the contributor, and said nothing.

“I didn’t tell you something,” she said, “I should have.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Well, it’s just that there’s this.”

She lifted her nightgown so that her belly showed. “It’s a tattoo.”

The impression was of a spiral, a cyclical wheel wound about her navel. The marking was green, the flesh raised, like a lesion.

I reached to feel it.

“Don’t touch it. It hurts.”

“Like a branding? How long have you noticed it?”

“Ever since I’d seen the obstetrician. I knew even before then. I felt it deeply, instinctively. I’ve been pregnant before; that was a long time ago. I just don’t want to lose it, again.”

I embraced her, comfortingly. “It’ll be alright.”

“There’s something else,” she said as her eyes welled with tears. “I’ve been having dreams.”

I gave her a quizzical look.

Last night I dreamt I fell into a fire. I screamed, and yelled but I couldn’t move. Like my body was paralyzed. I could see my skin blacken, my skin turn to ash–until my own voice sounded strange in my ears. I woke up, in a cold sweat.”

Over her shoulder, I hid my troubled expression. I stayed up late that night, doing research on the internet. I searched the encyclopedias, in the basement. I disregarded the dust, and the cobwebs, until I found the book I’d been meaning to find.

“A Translation of Myths and Celtic Symbols”

At the beginning of the book, was a similar symbol:  the dreaded tattoo that haunted my wife, and her dreams. 

I read on.

The emblem was a solar cross, a pre-Christian symbol with roots in many cultures: Indian, Greek, and Norse.

*

We’d called my wife’s lesion The Mark.  After inquiring about it to the obstetrician, and finding it posed no harm to her well being, we resolved that it was nuisance. 

The day came, when at last our son was born. He arrived with a caul: weighing a hefty ten pounds, and a dollop of red, being a follicular crown about his head. Like my wife, he had blue eyes. But I could not see my countenance in him. 

“He’s got it,” said the midwife. Her voice was uneasy, trembling. “The birthmark, on his forehead.”

I’d chuckled. It was one of those unhindered, feigned laughs; how someone could alter another’s worry on wordplay alone. I just couldn’t believe it. 

My wife stared at me then, eyes lavish and weary. 

We’d named our son Mark and as time went on his hair grew lush and tangled over his brow so that the brand did not show. Sometime during the early years I’d struggled to recall Lugh’s sentiment, though Faintly remembered the yew and figured, that it may have something to do with this. Though In truth, I would not allow myself to believe the superstition.

*

My wife’s novel was published in our sixteenth year. It’s title, “The Fortuitous Nature of a Postpartum Mother,” was allowed multiple installments by the editor. In the course of several months, it had climbed to the summit of fandom. She’d attained accolades from the editors of neighboring magazines. One reviewer, of the Antioch review, had remarked it as,”both sentimental and enlightening.” The talk amidst the papers, was that my wife, Nancy Summers, was to be the next prolific semi-autobiographical fiction writer. And shortly thereafter, before the letters spewed in petitioning her to write a second, her work was a bestseller.

“I’ll be going away,” she told me, “Just for a bit. Taking a flight to New York.”

“For what?” I said. I was excited for her.

“A televised interview, regarding my work. It’ll be a day trip.”

So I kissed her.

My son, who’d played football at the highschool, had surpassed me in height. The coach, and faculty were in talks of making him quarterback.

Even I saw the fruition of my hard work. I’d become department head of English, and published several articles in The Times.

*

However the storm came in April, when the dog died. Then my son broke out in fever. My wife hadn’t returned my calls, and I’d begun to worry. She’s found someone else, I thought. I’d begun to ruminate. Some doctor far off on her travels who drove a lavish sports car, and talked about Dotoskvy late into the night.

I fantasized on this thought, for far too long a time–to the point of fury. I calmed myself, believing in my haste, that I lacked the rationale. 

I waited.

*

“Its an acute stage of  multiple sclerosis,” the doctor said. “We can deter the symptoms for a time, but as is the case with neurological disease, deterioration is incremental, yes—but forthcoming.”

It is a troublesome thing for a teenager to face mortality. I didn’t tell him the diagnosis, not until I felt ready. But soon the fester of anxiety became too much. But even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

Instead, I took the axe from the woodshed, and hacked. In my fury, I don’t know for how long I went at it, but by the time I’d finished the sun had long fallen. I’d felt the exhaustion: the pangs in my hands, a fasciculation in my shoulder. 

But the truest, and most searing of pains began after: once I’d set the axe down on the table in the shed. 

It began with a hand cramp, and then a violent jostle–a shaking throughout my core. The force rattled my teeth. I heard a shrill sound, a pealing of gothic bells. No matter what, I could not drown it out. It was then that I saw it.

The dreaded mark, emulsifying, and manifesting on the back of my hand. It grew, singing flesh up my arm and to my chest. After a minute the burning sensation localized at my solar plexus, directly above my heart. 

To describe in words, what happened next would be a trifle all its own. The truth is, I am not certain to this day what transpired, but in that moment I remembered Lugh’s words. They resonated in the ambience of the mind, and festered.

In that instance, my body was not my own: neither to commandeer, neither to think. I was only a witness of what it did. My mind was a careful observer, affixed at times with panic and sheer disbelief.

I began with the hammer. My hands fished for it in my toolbox, the sea of sharps and gadgets. Then my fingers sought nails–not the tacks meant to hang picture frames, but rivets like one would find scattered about on an abandoned railroad. 

With these items I set off into the yard, hurriedly and crazily until my foot hit the trunk I’d cut. The impact, I’m sure had crushed my toes in their shoes but I could only wince, and continue the arduous, mysterious work at hand. 

Working on their own cognition, my hands removed my shoes, and socks. I could see the damage to my right foot, a mangled mess of bone protruding from sinews of flesh. Still my hands worked mercilessly. 

Like a brute, I sat on the tree trunk. I crossed my feet, the right over the left. Clutching the rivet, my hand glided above them. It aimed with precision, hovering. With my left hand, I raised the hammer above my head. 

Then, with a brutish force the hammer fell. It missed the rivet but hit my toes, only to render them mincemeat.

Still, my arm raised of its own volition and when it struck this time I heard a munching sound. With the next, a geiser of blood met my lips. It took a total of ten blows for the stake to puncture the flesh of both feet. It took several more to adhere them to the freshly stained bark of the yew.

I screamed at the gore of it, but began the placement of the second rivet.

Then the thought came. I was crucifying myself. 

then a whistle came from the forest, and a snarl with it. It was Lugh, and Failinis.

Give it here lad, said lugh and at once my hands obeyed. They offered up the hammer, the object of my penance.

Hands up! And my hands obeyed.
The old mans hands quivered as he placed the rivet in my palm.
Every time, said Lugh. I hate doing this. It hurts me just as bad. But,

Smack
I’ve grown accustomed
Wham!

To the pain. You people never learn.
thought you were kings, didn’t you?

With the last blow  his impaling had been complete. Both his hands were adhered to the boughs of the felled tree.

_heard this sniffing sound below, and saw the dog lapping up the blood.

 Failinis!

Sorry, said the old hound. It beats the shit you give me.


I should have never saved you, Failinis. Left you in that castle, I should have. 

Lugh turned to me. “ you got rope?”

I couldn’t answer, for to do so would be to acknowledge his subjugation. Instead i focused skyward, my eyes set on a particularly grating sirostratus.

I could only nod.

Is the rope in the shed?

I nodded again. 

“Dig!” cried the old man. The dog obeyed promptly at an alarming rate. Once the old dog had dug the hole to his master’s satisfaction, the poor thing collapsed in the muck and mire. 

“Now help me hoist him up!”

The old hound looked at Lugh, a cowardly, saddened expression. Then he left, disappearing into the shed. He returned with thick rope, the kind I used as a replacement for Bungy chords. 

With strong hands Lugh pulled the dirt from the soil

[To be continued]

By E.K. Anderson

Genre: Literary fiction

June’s six-year old is prone to temper tantrums. Last week, she took him out of school for a work trip in hopes of abating his outbursts. An excursion he will barely remember, she tells herself that this is a sound parental decision. Like him, she likes to pretend, though she is twenty seven: smack dab in the middle of early adulthood. Her own imagination fascinates her because it is pathological, bordering an artisan’s creation. With deceit its serpentine nature slithers, always. The lie is that she vacations for the sake of her job, and not for the interests of her son.

She is a Program Manager for the Smithsonian Institute of Natural History. With a doctorate from George Washington University, June’s area of focus is in Museum Studies. Her job is to stock and categorize the assortment of artifacts. She guides the curators, historians, and biologists by conducting personal, archaeological research. When objects are transferred between private collections, she is contractually obligated to meet with the board of affiliated sponsors, discussing the artifact and the condition it was kept in. Along with the oversight of annual exhibits, financing, and monetary donations, she lectures to both the public and faculty.

The exhibits are classified by time and region. The displays change often, but the themes remain the same. On the upper level, above the taxidermic elephant, are Kanaga masks from the Dogon people. Upon this same story, arranged in a set of complexes, is the Gem and Mineral exhibit. The Hope Diamond, a prominent jewel renowned for its curse, rests in a glass display. It is a vain thing that rotates on a pedestal, stopping alongside each facade of the case, for passersby to gawk at.

This exhibit exposes less known minerals such as wulfenite, and malachite. June prefers these: the less gaudy rocks, the ones that do not beckon for attention. Her pendant, given to her by her twin Ginelle, is made of onyx. Black with a sheen, the shard barely catches light. Where it does, the rock flashes, angry like lightening.

Ginelle pursues a degree in International Studies, what she describes as a breath of fresh air. She studies at the Sorbonne, and lives in a hostel that overlooks the Seine. She will meet them in Paris.

Thursday of last week, June received a telephone call from a representative attorney. The collector, a Parisian enthusiast of nineteenth century Impressionism, had wished to donate a Mary Cassatt painting to the Institute. At the time of his passing, the will entailed that the lawyer would act as executor, complying with the desire of the deceased. As a result, they fly to Paris, finalizing the ordeal.

Before eloping with land, June observes the first visual awe: countryside. From the air, the hills ungulate as irrigation ditches stretch, like muscle striations: taunt and formidable. The second spectacle, is setting foot off the plane, into Charles De Gaulle airport. Parisian air smells different. It possesses a homestead quality. When viewed from inside the building, the city and countryside are one: a limitless patchwork, meshing into a seamless tapestry.

“Doucement,” the French say. This is a figure of speech for their mannerisms are modest, yet direct. “Let them tread lightly,” they think, “for tomorrow is a sojourn.” This Speech is token, especially in the villas, where the moors know no bounds, and life flows tepidly. It trickles lukewarm amidst the houses of Giverny with buttresses and gables, as it always had in the days of Monet. Then, when one reaches the city, the faucet surges.  Paris is unobtrusive in the sense that it does not possess the superstitions of pantomiming peddlers, the outright gruffness of its citizens, or any of the pervasive Western stereotypes. From the sights, to the artwork in museums, the illustrious experience of Paris grows on the viewer. The entirety of the country, is a display. If a tourist is so inclined, he or she might spend a day preoccupied with the Neoclassic architecture. Another, must be spend with the people in the township of Rene, as they are most hospitable. For gourmands, food is the third, as open air markets are plentiful.

*

June and her son meet Ginelle at baggage claim. Ginelle has a stork bite on her forehead that failed to fade during infancy. They would be indistinguishable, were it not for this feature.

“You look older,” Ginelle says. She wears a little black dress, with paisley floral designs and flats.

“By five minutes?”

“Crows Feet never lie.”

At the bistro, Ginelle orders blood putting.

“What’s good?” June asks.

“Everything. Try the duck confit. As for you!” Ginelle gestures towards June’s son. “Crepes.”

“He wants French fries.”

“Not in France he doesn’t. Do you like pancakes?”

He nods.

“Okay then, you’ll like crepes.”

The crepes arrive stacked high. They are thin sheets, draped over each other like lace.

“Where’s the syrup?”

“You don’t eat them like that. Here, let me show you.” Ginelle flags the waiter. “Beurre.”

A minute later, the waiter brings out a crock, with a side of fig preserves. Ginelle smears the crepe with an even layer of butter and mashed fruit. She hands it to June.

“Mmm,” June says, encouraging her son to eat. He tastes it, and grimaces.

For her entree, June orders salmon. They decide, that tomorrow—after the jet lag has diminished—they will tread the cobblestone streets. They will see what there is to see, within the heart of the great city.

But first, they must board the metro. So at noon, they do so.

Traversing the metro in Paris is difficult for two reasons. Aside from being in another language, the platform signs flash green and yellow repeatedly–enough to induce a seizure. Second, unless a foreigner makes the effort to speak their language, the French do not attempt theirs.

The metro lines are myriad, and they interconnect like gossamer threads. Here, is the Green Line that leads to Place de La Concorde. It runs East to West. Another, the Red Line, weaves like an artery, with vessels articulating to Sacré-Cœur Basilica.  It leads to the Eighteenth district, an arrondisment where they toil the many steps of Montmartre, the highest point of Paris.

“Let’s go. The Red Line leads there.”

“But I’m not religious,” June says. She does not want to take it.

At its summit the cathedral of Sacré-Cœur is a great, white globe of sanctity where priests implore of their earnings. At the entrance, placards beckon them: some labelled l’argent for contribution, and Prier! for worship.

June appreciates the architecture. The steeple, a construct of marble and gold, is a wondrous thing. Paintings line the basal walls recounting the Nativity. As the Messianic story progresses, so do the relative height of the images. Soon, escalating passed the baptism and miracles is the Crucifixion, at the very apex. The priests do not permit cameras, and the objects of veneration are carved of marble. Brooding silence envelopes the place, to the point of uncomfortableness.

At June’s request, they skip Notre Dame. They reserve the Eiffel Tower for the evening. After the escapade, they venture back to their hotel. Ginelle accompanies them.

“Have you called him yet?”

“Who?”

“The lawyer.”

“Tomorrow.”

June leaves her son with Ginelle for the day. She meets the lawyer, Monsieur Demain in Barreau de Paris, a bureau and law firm. The office stands next to a cheese shop, and the hardy smell of curds is akin to putrefaction. Bland wallpaper lines the interior, with a flag that bears the fleur-de-lis, and a picture of Jacques Chirac.

“It is a lost gem,” the lawyer says. His English is so superb, that June envies it. “Monsieur Hier wanted for it to be in the care of someone he could trust. He had no next of kin, so he donated it. The work is entitled L’Enfance de Venus.”

In truth, she believes this is a hallmark, a missing link of art. The dimensions of the hemp canvas are thirty-two by twenty-six inches. In the center, a school girl stands, clad in the black livery of the day. Swallows and cardinals prance amidst willows and hedges. Fall leaves turn sienna, as beige clouds whisk away. In the background the Seine flows, a stride of blue along the horizon.

June wraps L’Enfance de Venus in a sackcloth linen to protect it from the light. Then, she tells Monsieur Demain goodbye, and the two part ways.

“Adieu,” he says.

*

They spend their last day in Paris, on a boat. The fare is cheap, and the ferry is a giant red vessel. The starboard side reads L’Esprit. L’Esprit traverses the underside of the bridges. Along the trusses, gargoyles leer as the huge mass courses. On deck, a megaphone screeches educational facts such as how Catharine of Aragon wed King Henry VIII, who went mad; at what time Place De La Concorde was built.

At the end of the ride, they disembark. It is noon, again. Their redeye flight to Detroit leaves at five in the afternoon. Ginnelle tells June that she will guide them through the metro until they reach the airport.

*

They get separated from June’s sister, when the doors close. When this happens, June is instantly aware of her helplessness. Like every American tourist, she is lost within the metro conduits. All June has is her arsenal of broken French. She also has several Euros. She keeps these with her credit cards and passport in a money belt under her shirt. June stashes her valuables, in a roll of towels, and buries this within her suitcase. Intuition tells her that if her bag is pilfered, the thief would at least leave the towels which contained her onyx pendant. But above all she keeps the Cassatt painting tucked close under her armpit. When she gets to the airport, she will expedite it as high priority freight. Until then she will carry around the priceless painting, of unknown worth.

Ginelle, whom she exclusively relied upon as translator, taught her several generic words. She knows “Ou?” for “Where?” “Lequel,” for “which one.” “Toilettes,” for bathroom. Once, when a gypsy had fingered her pocket for change, she said chienne, which meant bitch.

As her son clutches the hem of her skirt, she fixates on a map dispensed at one of the kiosks.

“I want to go home,” he says. By home he means their two bedroom apartment in D.C., that overlooks a conservancy.

“Stay close. Hold my hand.”

After missing her primary stop, at Gare St. Saint-Lazare she panicks. She assesses her location, and sits on Platform Eleven in the district of  St. Augustine. She sits because she is tired. Amidst the cacophony of the station, her mind forays through an empty state. It petitions her body for a good night’s rest. The knees, which harbor this immense weight, buckle. So she envisions her prospect down to every commodity: finding Ginelle, their first class seats on the plane, the fluffiness of the pillows, the songs they’d listen to through their Bose headsets, the flight attendants as they dimmed the cabin lights.

According to the map they need to board the Yellow Line at Platform Twelve. However, this task proves elusive and arduous. With map and luggage in hand, she struggles through the corridors, clambers up steps, and shuffles through a sea of people. The worst risk, she thinks, is the exposure. June, especially looks lost, like ignorance has affixed to her face.

When she reaches platform twelve, June drops everything. She sets her baggage on a bench, and lets her arms fall to their sides. They ache, and she feels a dull throb in her lower back. Out of stubbornness, she even takes out her pendant and wears it.

June sits in the tunnel for quite some time. She does not know for how long, because she concerns herself with the solitude of the place. In the district of St. Augustine, few tourists congregate. When they do, they do not appear: voices take their presence. The language trails, resonating round and sweet through concrete. It sounds like trickling water, somewhere off deep.  

The subway is home to a stagnant art, where graffitists paint lascivious images of engorged genitalia, mocking observers. Tiles tessellate the tunnels on all sides. Quite often, words are written along the walls.

She reads a passage by a poet she does not know.  The words are inscribed upon white tiling, and she does not understand their meaning:

“Bien avant les images et les couleurs

La source du chant s’imaginait

A bouche fermée

Comme une chimère captive.”

Further yet, where the the tunnel ends, the words fade like a drawing in perspective. Displayed on the far wall is the mosaic of a mouth, like a fresco. The lips open to a cherry tongue and a dark, cavernous space.

“Can we eat?” her son says, “I’m hungry.”

“In a bit. When we get back to the airport.” She thinks logistically. When they get back to the airport, she will be doing a number of things. First, regardless of the international fee, she will call Ginelle. She will let her know, in the span of a minute, that she loves her. Second, she will call the Institute, and speak of the condition of the painting; that it saw little sunlight and hung on a stucco wall. Third, because she is curious, she will look up the words to that poem, in a French-English dictionary.

The Yellow Line comes along smugly, easily. Indistinguishable from the other Lines it is a gray oblong box. It conduces on the same tracks; it trolleys back and forth, enclosing its hoard of sultry passengers; and it laments in frustration at the things past, and murmurs for those yet to come.

The doors open, like a mouth. Amidst the crowd they are last in queue. Bodies shuffle for a brief moment, a semblance of frotteurism. She clutches the onyx pendant as they enter the confines, the encasement. For a brief second her arm relaxes, and the painting slips. It does not fall to the floor. Rather it is caught by a man, wearing plaid with ruffled hair. Incognito, he slinks off into the crowd, as the doors close.

On the subway she holds her son close, and turns to the people. In their expression, the people know of her foreignness. Their flavor is bittersweet, a taste of umami. For a millisecond, she thinks that maybe, through the disparity of dialect, they might perceive her loss. On the other side of the door, June searches vainly for the man who stole her painting.

The intercom crackles. It announces their next stop. Then, the iron beast jostles.

By E.K. Anderson

Genre: Gothic fantasy/Horror

August 3, 1950 – Chicago

–A momentary lapse of reason

I was out of sorts on the day I left my wife. 

That day, I lied, as I had numerous times before. I told my wife that I was out with a few old college friends, having drinks at the local pub on Aberg Avenue. Gambling hadn’t come to the fore then, but I’m sure she had her suspicions. Her reasoning—and my defense–was that since I was born into a good Christian family, I would honor our marriage. I told her I would not cheat as ungodly men do, and this verbal affirmation lent credence to the claim. However, resolute I was in this affectation, this changed when I met the girl.

Everything changed after that. 

For weeks, I’d been wrestling with the decision. Of course, like a demon’s possession, it only stirred my state, and darkened my mood. To stifle my state further, I began to drink with the vague illusion that between the glasses of scotch I’d find a revelatory notion to impede my doubts.But with the residual pang of suffering, I resolved to annul myself as one would an exorcism. 

I called Hughes, from the theatre, and resolved that night to pack my suitcase, and leave for the last bus station of the night. The day I left our home, I knew I would never return. The body I occupied was miles away from the mental task I had set for it. I kept to mine most perfunctorily — brutishly set in the throes of my directorial work at the Guild.

My solitary nature of course, did not bode well for the discourse of our marriage — and my wife, being perceptive to my level of aloofness took to the seas of her adventure, without a word. I told her that I was going to complete my work, and that was that.

And then the thought came most immediately to jump and rid myself of the searing emptiness. I resolved to leave that night.

And leaving my ring upon her pillow, I left.

I’d been staying with an actor friend. (Squatting, was more so the word). Most days I’d set up my study in the basement of the theatre, typing away at something to rant about. 

The following week, my wife’s letter came in the mail.

Good riddance, scum.

Off to meet a sailor in Prague. 

Despite the inner calamity I felt, I did not question the conditions of her departure. I was a fool for allowing an open marriage, and my karmic self-indulgence had finally paid its pang due.

I set the envelope upon the desk of my study. The golden ring I’d set upon the pillow was smelted thin, hammered into a disc of flattened metal.

The day I left, I was still honing the particularities of the play. The Theatre’s production of a Midsummer’s Night Dream,  had fallen through to me.   As director, my task was to find an adequate substitute for Queen Titania. I suppose, I’d been looking for an excuse; a partial-solution to the slew of dreariness I’d been feeling lately.

I’d been writing on spec for the theatre’s production of a Midsummer’s Night Dream. But my inspiration started when I caught sight of her. On set for her audition, I saw the woman with the countenance of Circe. She drew breath, and I sat in stark admiration of her presence. I gave her the part.

*

The girl entered the Pub late one evening. It wasn’t that she’d entered by herself modestly. It was that she entered as majestic, and placidly as a moth. Allured by the woman’s appearance, I’d observed her from the inside of Lorcan’s pub, sheepishly. I was still married then, and my wife had been away on a directorial production. It was the anniversary of our wedding 

Grateful for the shield of bodies from my other bar patrons I contented myself with a drink to celebrate the New Year.  She sat languidly upon the patio bar bench, toting arm in arm alongside a young student from the Actor’s guild. In her hand was an Old Fashioned drink– sour or sweet — I could not tell. But from the restaurant’s veranda 

Wan and scarlet-haired, she rose from the bench.She seemed like the compilation  dreams were made of.

I ordered an Old Fashioned Sweet. 

“Complements of the house,” Lorcan said. “Courtesies from Morgan Le Fey Celeste. On the house.”

“Interesting,” I said. “I will be sure to thank her.”

I was a Marlon Brando in those days. Beset by a bit of fame, I could play the lofty pride of the part. I was Flint O’Toole. A casanova on the rebound. 

Morgan was an actress, or so she told me, and I believed her because she looked like Greta Garbo. She had sunshine in her eyes, and a voice that matched, which made me reminisce. When she spoke, I felt young again.

“My name’s Flint O’Toole,” I told her, my voice husky as tarnished leather. “Like the city in Michigan.” Hers was Celeste. I told her that I ran the actor’s guild. 

“I’m a teacher,” I said.

“Of what sort? Theater?” The girl twirled her scarlet hair. The sprigs tumbled over her shoulders like a bloodied cataract. She popped her gum.

“No, history. Western Civilization. Ethics.”

“At the university?”

“Yes,” I said, “But I also direct in my free time.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

So I did. And she told me about her experience in showbiz, and how her long lost manager had sold her out for a blonde with knee high stockings. She’d resorted to waitressing, and dancing at the gentleman’s club part time. Her story was lavish and piteous, so I  accepted most of it, subconsciously. I shunned from any mention of relationships, or my wife. With time I could tell her fondness for me had grown, so I asked her out. 

I thought a simple dinner with a movie was sufficient. I took her to Caelum, a five star restaurant, with water carafes, and pallid, bored waiters. 

As I sat across from her, I caught the smell of patchouli. Her smile was an effulgence that sprung from her face. I could see that her hair was flattened, matted down like rose petals. On her head she wore a sort of crown with miniature crystals—diadems she called them. Truthfully, I didn’t know why she wore it, especially on an outing like this. I wondered if I had expelled some indication of wealthiness, because I most surely wasn’t.

“Where are you from?” I said. I noticed a dialect in her words, with vowels slightly more enunciated than I was accustomed to in the Midwest. 

“From out West. Those places you don’t ever hear of.”

“And in what specific place were you born?”

The girl sipped her tea. “A place out East. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

*

We stopped at a drive-in. 

The movie was an Alfred Hitchcock flick. Truthfully, I don’t recall much of it, besides a sea of black birds–maybe crows, enveloping terrified women in pencil skirts. I think it was because, I kept thinking—in rumination—how I’d lost my wife’s trust, and were I to come clean, under the toil of guilt, how the divorce would affect our kids. I thought about where I’d live with such a modest income. I’d meant to exit the car, or do anything for fresh air.

“I think I should go,” I said.

“Where?” Celeste said, her pitch heightened with the heat of passion. In the night her red hair caught moonlight, and intercepted it into platinum. She smothered me with ripe breasts, and flicked her tongue.

“Home.”

“And where is home, love? Tell me, my King, where is it? ” she said. I cleared the haze from the glass, and gazed through the car window. Outside the sky lighted periwinkle, and the sun set on a graying countryside. Elm trees sprouted around us; the drive-in screen that rose like an edifice was gone. The car was in the midst of a forest clearing. 

“I don’t know.” I managed. I felt a sullen longing, a deep hurt in my gut. My jaw tensed. I looked to the passenger seat. 

The girl’s face contorted. I saw the sinews of her visage twist and turn. The underlying muscles undulated, rippling through flesh. Perspiration festered at her brow.  Then with sudden alarm, the superficial skin broke, molting and shedding to reveal the thing beneath. The crown plopped on my lap.

The thing bore no likeness to the girl, and in that moment of flight, I could not recollect what the original succubus had looked like. The skin I had sloughed away in the usual way. The moult was all worn. Her head began to gyrate, pulsating segments until her abdomen split forth from its center like a ripe cocoon. 

Then oozing forth the fleshy body crept out. A bright red abdomen set in a black body. The spider moulted. 

It burrowed its head in the crevice of a deer carcass, and gorged on blood. Under such corporal stress, the body of the deer shriveled. The effect like a rose, withering. 

And again its body turned, towards the sound of my breath.

After gorging the great insect gyrated, rolled back its eight eyes to white. The exoskeleton burst. 

I ran through the pines. I did not stop to see again what form the dreaded creature took. 

Before running, I’d caught sight of the reddening malice, how its eyes had glossed over white, and the image stuck in the recess of my mind. I ran through mist along a gravel path, until my feet met concrete.  Then, I breathed for a count of ten and ran again.

Wherever I was, did not bear a resemblance to Sixth street. As I scouted vainly for a landmark through the mist, I realized the forest, in all its splendor, was a continuum. Here and there, the path, the trees, the clearing—all of it mimicked. 

A torch flickered faintly in the distance. Humidity had quieted the flame in the brazier, so that it hissed, a maddening red. It stood upon a small brick edifice, painted white: a booth. The toll attendant wore a jester’s hat.

“Lui qui rira bien rira dernier. You got that?”

I shook my head. 

“It’s just a joke,” said the attendant. “You’re thick aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You’ve also got wyvern troubles.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wyvern. Those draconic creatures with two legs. Emblem of Wessex. Whore of Babylon.”

Then, I understood.

“Yes, I have had—excuse me—how do you say?

“Wy-vern.”

“Yes, that kind of trouble. How did you know, and do you know which way to—”

“Civilization? The world? That’d be through this booth here. What if I told you, that at the Edge of the World there is a Mad Jester, who laughs at the sheer futility of everything? He cackles at the pursuit of nothingness, the vast chasm of meaning that is lost to meaninglessness, et cetera. Death especially, that’s a hoot.”

“And what is the toll?”

“Get him to stop laughing.” said the Jester, through exasperated breaths of laughter.

I heard the creature treading the gravel, through the mist. Then, I saw it: a hideous ebony serpent—the hide of the woman still adhered to its tail. I was astounded at the breadth of its wings: great black parasols that loomed over the country road. And then with sudden clarity, its form now in full view, it glared at me, and me at it. Its eyes rolled over white, as saliva frothed at its muzzle. Then, it charged.

The Jester laughed, of course.

I pressed a picture of my wife, up against the pane. 

“Ce un belle femme. She’s beautiful, you know, ” he said.

I nodded vigorously, “Yes, she is.” He chuckled, but gazed longingly at the photograph.

“Are you going to let me pass?”

“Yes, yes. That’ll certainly do.” said he, and The Jester stopped cackling. 

*

He printed my ticket, and slid it to me, slowly. 

Regrettably, I handed him the picture.

The boom barrier inched upwards, like the second hand of a clock. My heart beat in tandem, and as it rose so it wiped the fog away, like a squeegee. Through the airy medium, the action revealed a vista and I saw the World, from the Edge of the World.

I saw the skyline of New York City, the mundane municipalities of Annapolis, the dunes of Gaza, and the slithering bend of the Seine. The waters of the Atlantic trickled at sunset over the rim of the horizon. All of it, a sheen flat as glass.

And then, I jumped into the murk of it all, narrowly missing a bite to the rear. I bounded into this world, immaterial.